PTB S University 2012
by moirae
Summary: My collection of homework assignments for S-University, hosted by Project Team Beta. These are exercises intended to help me improve as a writer, and most will be written in a short time and un-beta'd.
1. PreAssignment Write Something Smutty

**Study Break**

Pre-Assignment for Smut University 2012  
hosted by Project Team Beta

I don't own Twilight.

* * *

"Hey, Bella. You're getting a late start."

I swiped my student ID as I entered the library and smiled at the girl in kitten specs sitting behind the help desk. Angela's shifts often overlapped my preferred study hours, and we'd developed a passing acquaintance. I liked her. She was soft-spoken but sharp, with really peculiar tastes. She once showed me her collection of turn-of-the-century circus erotica, which was creepy and weird, but all kinds of awesome. Though I have to admit, I'd been having a recurring nightmare about the one with the Siamese twins and the bearded lady. The things that third hand was doing . . . _shudder_.

I shook off the disturbing image and prayed for a dreamless night.

Angela was eyeing me expectantly, and I realized I hadn't yet replied. "Yeah, I took a nap after class and slept through dinner. But I have Banner in the morning, and he assigned a hundred pages this week, so I'm fucked if I don't work tonight."

"Good luck, then. It's pretty dead around here, so you should have the place to yourself."

It was eleven p.m. on a Monday—of course it was dead. No one wanted to spend their night in the campus library when there were infinitely more interesting things to do. Or at least infinite ways to avoid studying.

I waved goodbye and hitched my bag onto my shoulder, heading toward the stairs in the East Wing. As I pulled the door open, I nearly slammed into a boy exiting the stairwell, and we both did that awkward dance of trying to move out of the way in the same direction. I couldn't see much of him under his black hoodie and stubbled face, but what I did see, I liked. He was tall and lean and had that rumpled bad boy thing going on that was always so frustratingly attractive. Bad boys might be nice in your pants, but they weren't good for your heart.

After three or four passes of the politeness tango, he stepped aside and stilled, gesturing "after you". It would have been endearing if he hadn't huffed in annoyance while doing it.

_Oh, like I should feel bad I'm keeping you from where ever the hell you need to be for two extra seconds._

_Prick._

I headed down two flights of stairs, resolutely not thinking about cute jerks and their lickable chins as I made my way to the sub basement. I always felt a little bit like Gollum sneaking off to his lair when I came here to study, but I'd come to love my little cavern. The bottom level of the library was reserved for obscure reference books on subjects like medieval kitchen practices and paleolithic animal husbandry. They were dusty and ignored, as sad as an abandoned sock on a playground.

Which meant I was never interrupted.

I'd tried using the study rooms in the library my freshman year and found I couldn't focus alongside the grating sounds of my peers. People were always chatting, snoring, or texting, and it drove me insane. The day I found this little hide-away I could have cried. No distractions. No disturbances. No friends coming up wanting to talk or see my notes or ask me what I was writing for Cope's class. Perfect solitude. And it was all mine.

But that wasn't even the best part. Not only did my secret nook have two windows (the library had been constructed on a hill, so parts of the bottom floors had access to daylight), but somehow it had been blessed with the most perfect chair of all time. Upstairs had a two options for seating: traditional desks with hard wooden chairs that made your butt ache after ten minutes, or the hip set of bean bags that encouraged nothing more than a primo nap. Yet the gods had shined down on me with this perfect chair. A soft leather seat that was comfortable over long stretches, but a firm back that discouraged sleep; generous width that allowed for legs up, down, crossed, or slung over the padded arms; and a welcoming smell like my grandmother's house in winter.

The biggest advantage of my nook was that the windows faced east, so even if I pulled an all-nighter and crashed out at four a.m., I'd always know when to get up and head to class by the rising sun.

I passed by the ancient stacks and walked around a few darkened corners until I reached my spot. As soon as I approached, I could see something was out of place. It sent a sick jolt of distress through my frame, and with Baby Bear clarity I knew: someone had been sitting in my chair.

I never would have known if it weren't for the trash. Whoever this intruder was had left a Coke can on the end table and a half-eaten bag of peanut m&ms on the seat.

_What the hell? Who just leaves trash sitting around in someone's favorite study spot?_

I moved the can to the floor along with the candy and figured I'd take care of it when I was done. I wasn't going out of my way searching for a trash can now, and that stuff certainly wasn't going to sit on my table. I settled in with my assigned reading—_Gender, Power, and Relationships_—and flipped to the marked section. It took me a page or two to register I couldn't remember a single thing I'd read. Something was eating at me, but I didn't understand what until my eyes landed on the detritus at my feet.

And then it was clear. This space, this pristine and perfect space, was no longer solely mine. It had been discovered—tainted—and I didn't know how I could make it pure again. I'd always thought I was the only one who'd found this place. Rationally, I knew that wasn't possible. But still, it was _my_ secret, _my_ haven, _mine_. As swift as a swipe at a chalkboard, that truth had been wiped clean. My spot was contaminated, the intruder's unwelcome occupation still lingering on my once-perfect seat.

I toed the trash and moved it further away, hoping to get it out of my sightline and off my mind. With renewed purpose I dove back into Banner's assignment and tried to focus on the chapter titled _The Wounded Prince and the Women Who Love Him_.

_Oh my God, do I really have to spend half my night reading about tragic pretty boys and their vapid girlfriends? Give me a break!_

But that's what I did, focusing my attention and making it halfway through the first section in no time. Getting lost in a book wasn't hard for me, which is why I didn't hear him when he first approached.

"Ahem."

I nearly jumped out of my seat at the sound of a gruff throat-clearing.

"Jesus!" I looked up and met intense green eyes—the bad boy from the stairs, I realized, with arms crossed and mouth pursed.

_What the hell?_

"Do you always sneak up on people like that?" I was being defensive, I knew, but I didn't like being surprised, and I really didn't like someone else in my space.

"What? I didn't sneak up on you." He eyed me incredulously and frowned. He was making me uncomfortable, staring at me like that.

"Whatever. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, you can give me my spot back."

"What?"

"My spot," he repeated, slowly, like I was some kind of moron. "I was working here."

_What is he talking about?_

"Um . . . pretty sure you weren't," I said. "I've been working here."

He rolled his eyes and blew out a long breath. His jaw tightened, and I thought again about how delicious it looked with that two-day stubble. I wondered how it would feel against my lips. Would it be scratchy, or had it grown long enough to be soft? Then he spoke, and I remembered I was starting to hate this guy.

"Yeah, well before you, I was here all evening."

"Then where've you been for the past—" I checked my watch. "—twenty minutes?"

"Not that it's any of your business, I went to grab some dinner and take a leak. But I saved it. I left my stuff here."

_What is he talking about?_

"What stuff? There's no stuff!"

"That!" he said, pointing to the abandoned can and candy wrapper.

_Oh, no._ He's _the one who polluted my seat?_ He's _the one who invaded my space and ruined my perfect bubble of solitude? No fucking way!_

Almost worse than that thought, however, was the realization that he was trying to lay claim to it—that he thought he could leave his discarded snack and reserve my perfect nook.

"What, the trash? That's not stuff. That's litter."

"Clearly, someone was using the space when you got here. I _saved_ it. It's _mine_." His voice rose an octave, and he looked like a little boy throwing a tantrum. I was just waiting for the breath-holding and foot-stomping to begin.

"What are you, six? And your trash is supposed to indicate a reserved spot? Give me a break!" I straightened my spine, trying make myself more intimidating in my seat. Which—considering I was about a foot smaller than him standing—was a ridiculous idea. "Leave a bag. Leave some books. That reserves your spot—otherwise it's up for grabs."

_Why am I telling him this? Everybody knows this._

"In case you hadn't noticed, all I have with me is my laptop, and there's no fucking way I was gonna leave that behind."

I wasn't usually this antagonistic, but there was something about this boy, with his ripped jeans and tattoo peeking out from his collar, that made me want to fight.

I spoke slowly, to make absolutely certain he understood me. "I'm sorry you didn't follow proper spot-reserving protocol, but I'm here now, so why don't you just go find _another_ spot and let me study?"

For a moment I was afraid he might try to hit me. I'd seen that look in a guy's eyes, and it usually came right before one neanderthal pummeled another over a slutty blonde. I tensed, ready punch him in the balls if he came a step closer. My dad's a cop, and he didn't raise some helpless idiot.

He sighed and took a deep breath, visibly calming. I kept myself poised for attack, anyway, still not trusting him. Then it was his turn to talk slowly, and I could see he was working very hard to reason with me.

"Look, my roommate is blazing up with his friends in our dorm, all the other spaces in the library are quiet rooms, the AV labs are closed, and I need to edit my film. I need this spot."

_Great—a film student. Probably some David Fincher wanna be with delusions of grandeur and porn on his hard drive._

A part of me—a very small part—felt for the guy. But not enough to give up my coveted space. I was sure there were a dozen other places on campus that would accommodate him. He'd had his turn here, and I had work to do. I wasn't leaving.

"I'm sorry, but none of the other rooms are as private as this one, and it has my favorite comfy seat—so I'd like to stay. And since possession is nine tenths of the law—"

"Are you really gonna be a bitch about this?"

My jaw dropped.

"_Excuse me?_"

"You heard me," he said with a glint in his eyes. "You're being a complete bitch."

"First of all, it's so typical for a guy to label a woman a bitch, just because she doesn't do what he wants. Second, your skills of persuasion are seriously lacking. Calling me a bitch is the best way to ensure I NEVER. FUCKING. LEAVE. THIS. SPOT."

He glared at me, and my breath caught in my throat. I never knew fire could burn green, but that's what I saw in those jade eyes—flaming hot rage.

"Oh my God, woman! What is wrong with you?"

This time he did stamp his foot, and his laptop nearly flew from his hand. He set it down, too hard, on the floor and clutched at his rumpled reddish-brown hair. For a second, I got lost in that move. I wanted to run my hands through his hair. I wanted to grip it in my fists and pull while he screamed my name—

_Wait, what? No. I hate this guy. I do not want to fuck him._

_Yes, you do._

_Oh, shit._

He stalked over, towering above me and leaning down until his hands rested on the arms of my chair, caging me in. I swallowed thickly, smelling outdoors and smoke and _boy_ while he assaulted me with his gaze. Too close, he was definitely too close. My brain was short circuiting.

_Shouldn't I do something? Shouldn't I be worried?_ His anger was so volatile—he was pulled tight like a rubber band, and he could snap any second.

Kiss him! some part of me shouted, and I told her to shut up. I was not going to kiss those perfect lips, I was not going to suck on that hollow space in his throat, I was not going to let him fuck me silly . . .

_Oh, God. I really want him to fuck me silly._

He leaned in closer, and I found myself paralyzed. His face brushed against my hair, sparking electric shocks across my scalp. Just a little closer and his lips would be touching my ear. _How good would that feel?_ I shivered at the thought.

"You are going to regret this," he whispered, and that soft voice—slick and venomous like a serpent—did strange things to my nether regions.

With inhuman strength I held back the moan that was dying to be released. I clamped down on my bottom lip, not caring if I drew blood, needing to reign in the words teetering on the edge of my lips. Words that would make him move those rough hands from the arms of my chair to where they really belonged. Words that would surely mark my ruin—or was it my triumph?

Just as I felt the words bubbling up and spilling out, he moved away from me—eyeing me like prey—and halting my voice in its tracks. Slowly, without taking his eyes from mine, he lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged a few feet away. Then he reached out and grabbed his computer, pulling it onto his lap, while the heat and desire swirling around me lost its focus—like a dancer deprived of music.

_What's he doing?_

At last, he broke eye contact, flipping the laptop open and looking down at its screen. Suddenly, I remembered where I was—what this was all about—and my stomach dropped when I realized what he had planned.

_He's not actually going to sit here and work, is he?_

But that, it seemed, was exactly what he was going to do. A few clicks of his mousepad and my quiet nook was filled with strange voices and background music.

_No. NO! He cannot sit here and work on his stupid film! Fucking prick!_

He clicked the mouse, and the voices repeated what they'd said, lines of innocuous dialogue made noxious by their very presence in my space. He ignored me, focused entirely on his work, while I squirmed and huffed in my seat. He couldn't do this! It was completely ridiculous. If he wasn't going to fuck me, he certainly wasn't going to ruin my chance to finish this assignment. I was getting boned or I was getting an A. There were no other options.

"No." At last, I found my voice. "No, you can't do this."

He didn't look up, clicking again, and the voices changed—further into the scene or falling behind, I didn't know.

"Did you hear me? You have to leave."

_"But that's what love is, you moron. It's fire and passion and pain. You can't have the good without the bad, Rob_," a female voice said from the computer, while Bad Boy watched the screen intently.

Click. Click.

_"—fire and passion and pain—"_

Click. Click.

_"—Kristen, no. That's not what love is—"_

Click. Click.

_"—You can't have the good without the bad—"_

Click. Click.

"STOP IT! Stop it, _please_," I said, unable to take any more. At last he looked up.

"I'm sorry?" he said, in a way that showed he was absolutely _not_ sorry.

"Please, just go. You can't do this here. I have to focus. I need to read—"

Bad Boy wore a smile as sweet as a summer peach and said, "Well, don't let me stop you." Then he looked down, clicking again, bringing those horrible voices back.

I snapped. I couldn't take it. It was late, and I could feel the minutes ticking by. I wanted to study, but more than that, I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to look at me the way he watched that screen—with rapt attention, unwavering focus.

I lowed myself to the ground—not fully in control of my body—and slapped his computer shut, silencing the voices. Before I had a chance to move away, his hand was clamped on my wrist—holding me still. His eyes captured mine, dark rage pooling in green depths.

"You did not just touch my computer."

_Oh, no._

I had nothing to say. I couldn't quite believe what I had done, either. He was holding me and scaring me, but I was surprised to find my terror was nowhere near as powerful as my desire. And as he watched me with fire burning in his eyes, I thought maybe it was the same for him.

I tried to pull away, backing into the chair, but he slid the computer from his lap and sat up on his knees, tugging me roughly up with him. My heart was pounding, and I was starting to shake—adrenaline coursing through my veins. I knew it was wrong—me, him, here, now—but it felt so _right_.

We teetered on that edge, that space between yes and no, for eternity. At least it felt that way. In reality, it was only seconds before he read the choice in my eyes and made his own. With his free hand he fisted the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled me in, crashing down on my mouth and resolving the question I didn't know I had been asking myself since the first moment I saw him.

_What would it be like to kiss him?_

It was amazing—forceful and domineering, angry and passionate. I could taste his ire, like salt and smoke and mint. I gave back as good as I got, pouring my fury out, feeding my desire.

He let go of my wrist and wrapped his arm around me, deepening the kiss. He pressed closer and closer, until I was pushed against the chair, my back arching over the seat. I broke from his mouth and ran my lips over his stubbled chin, reveling in the sharp prickle of his beard, bruising my mouth as I nipped and nibbled. I rubbed my face against his jaw, like a cat begging for attention. I wanted that chin to scratch over every inch of me, leaving me raw and red.

"Come here," he said in a gravely voice as he pulled my hair, bringing my mouth back to his. I gasped at the sweet pain. An electric jolt shot through my body, sparking in my abused scalp and landing between my legs. I throbbed. I burned for him.

We carried on like this for a long time—pushing and pulling, giving and taking. Our kisses weren't always so punishing, our touches not always so rough. He'd yield playfully for a moment, or I would, but somehow we always returned to the intensity, to the fire burning just below the surface.

When kissing was no longer enough, I grasped at his hoodie, drawing it down over his shoulders and off his arms. My hands found their way under his shirt, exploring the hot skin of his stomach before reaching around his sides. I scratched at his back, feeling wild and powerful. He hissed and he drew back, examining me with a glower.

At first I was afraid I'd gone too far, wrecked everything. Then he smirked and licked his lips, and in an instant, my shirt was gone, and I was wide-eyed and breathless. Before I could register the fact that this was really happening—I was topless and making out with a stranger in the school library—he dipped his head and pulled the cups of my bra down, attacking one breast with his mouth and the other with his hand.

I sucked in a sharp breath and gripped his hair. He devoured me—licking and tugging, biting and sucking. His rough stubble burned my sensitive skin until my toes curled and my head lolled back. Exquisite agony. Magnificent torture.

_Holy Christ, that feels good._

I let out a low moan and felt him smile against my breast.

I wanted more. I wanted to crawl inside him. I wanted to choke on his fire.

I don't know what decided it for me in the end. The possessive way he held me; the way his expression flicked from disdain to adoration within seconds; the way he made me feel like I was melting, being forged into something new, something better—whatever it was, the outcome was the same. I leapt into the unknown—wildly, with abandon—and I didn't look back.

With my hands still laced in his hair, I pulled his face up to mine and kissed him hard, pressing tongue to tongue and hips to hips. Then I pushed his chest, and he fell backward, landing with limbs askew. He was surprised and uncertain, until I moved to straddle him and felt him hard and ready beneath me. I fisted my hands in his shirt and rocked my hips, watching him. His eyes darkened, and he grabbed my hips and smirked.

I could feel him hitting me in that perfect spot, that delicious place that would lead to beautiful oblivion. And I wanted it. I wanted oblivion with him.

I leaned down and kissed across his chin and down his neck, finding his shoulder with my teeth as I shifted my legs to his side. My hand crept to the closure of his jeans, and he groaned in anticipation. I pulled at the first button and suddenly his hand was around my wrist, halting me once again.

"Wait," he said, and I felt myself deflate.

_Why is he stopping me? He obviously wants this._

"Are you on something?"

At first I had no idea what he was talking about.

_On something? Like drugs?_

Then it clicked, and I was thankful at least one of us was thinking clearly.

"The shot." And since at least a few synapses were firing again, I said. "And you? Are you—"

"Clean."

I took a beat to process that, then said, "Okay."

I tried to reach for his jeans again, but he suddenly stood up and pulled me with him, leaving me wobbling on uncertain legs.

"What—?" I thought he might be trying to take me somewhere else, and while it was a good idea to be a little less conspicuous, I didn't want to leave. I wanted him now.

"You like this chair, huh?" he said—backing me up until my thighs touched the armrest—and staring at me with an evil trickster grin.

I lost my voice. I couldn't answer. I nodded slowly as he watched me squirm.

"Well, I'm going to fuck you against this chair until you scream."

_Oh, God. Yes, please!_

I made a strangled noise as he spun me around and bent me over the soft, padded armrest. Then my pants and underwear were around my knees, and I squealed.

_Jesus, this is really happening. I'm going to get fucked in the library._

It was the scariest, stupidest, most mouth-wateringly hot thing I'd ever done, and I couldn't wait. I heard fabric rustling behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see him release his cock from his jeans. His beautiful fucking cock.

_Wow. Okay, I can do this_, I reassured myself. _The mechanics are all the same—I'm sure he'll fit._

He grinned smugly and said, "Like what you see?"

I groaned and turned away from him, unwilling to give this arrogant motherfucker the satisfaction of an answer.

He took my silence as a "yes" and said, "Well you don't get to have it just yet."

_What? But I want it! Give it to me!_

Contrary to his words, he pressed his hips against mine and rubbed his hard length between my legs. I made a strange mewling sound as his tip rubbed against that spot, and I pressed myself back against him, increasing the pressure.

Then he was gone, and I was crying out, "No!" right before I felt a swift crack on my bottom. I screamed.

_Did he just spank me? Oh my God, he just spanked me._

_And I think I liked it!_

As the sting settled into a beautiful tingle, he said, "That is for taking my spot."

Crack!

I cried out, pleasure-pain sounding in my throat as he spanked me again.

"That is for being a bitch about it."

Then his fingers were inside me, and I lost my breath as he pumped roughly in and out in the most exquisite way. He leaned over me, resting his front against my back and kneading my breast with his free hand.

"And this is for being the hottest piece of ass I have ever seen."

Then his fingers were gone and his cock was at my entrance and I was wet and ready and shivering in anticipation.

He pushed in, neither slow nor gentle, and I groaned as he filled me up. He gripped my hips as he pulled out, then slammed back into me. _Hard_. My hands grasped onto the opposite armrest for leverage as he slammed into me again.

The ugliest grunts and groans were flying out of me as he continued his beautiful assault, but I didn't care. He was inside me, and it was the best thing I had ever felt—the best thing I could ever _imagine_ feeling.

"Oh, God," he said in a strangled groan as he rocked into me again and again. "You feel so fucking good."

My legs were jelly. My bottom tingled where he spanked me, and it was growing more raw with each slap of his hips. My skin crackled like an exposed nerve, and I could feel a delicious pressure building between my legs.

I lost myself in the feel of him. His rocking hips, the little twist he added to the end of a stroke, the way he hit that place inside that made my eyes cross and my stomach clench.

It felt so good, and I never wanted it to end.

Then he reached around and pressed his fingers to my clit, and I knew I would give anything for him to help me end it _now_. He teased my most sensitive spot, moving in time with his thrusts, and I was spiraling up and up and up. Closer and closer he brought me, until I was babbling, "Please, please, yes, God, _yes_."

I could feel him getting close, too, his thrusts more punishing and erratic. As he pounded into me, the glorious spark built and burst at last, and I screamed out as it rocketed through my body. I slammed my eyes shut, and all was white. Beautiful, floating, empty white.

Then he thrust wildly and cried out his own release, flowing into me hot and fast.

We collapsed against the chair, sweaty, heavy, and spent. He brushed the hair from my neck and pressed his lips to it, his hot breath washing over me and raising goosebumps across my skin.

_Oh, God_.

There simply were no words.

I felt tired and sated. And dirty—in the most delightful way.

At last, he raised himself up and pulled out of me, drawing a gasp of disappointment. I liked having him in me. I wanted him to always be in me.

Then he did the most surprising thing of the night—which, considering I had just fucked a total stranger, was saying a lot—and knelt down behind me, rubbing gentle circles on my tender bottom and placing a sweet kiss on each cheek. I tried to keep the goofy grin from my face, but it was no use. I was glowing under his affection.

He pulled my pants up and drew me down onto his lap, cradling me sweetly.

_Who are you, and what have you done with the asshole who just fucked me sideways?_

He held me silently for a long while, and I just enjoyed the feel of his strong arms and the wonderful smell of sweat, sex, and boy.

At last he spoke, and his voice was music in my ears.

"I feel a little bad. I don't even know your name."

I blushed, pushing down the thought that I was a dirty, dirty slut (and I liked it).

"I'm Bella."

"Nice to meet you, Bella," he said through a smirk. "Edward."

Then he held my gaze and smiled cheekily, gesturing to the space around us. Before he spoke the words, I knew. My once-beloved study space was irrevocably altered. I would never be able to sit here again without thinking of this night, without wanting his mouth pressed to mine and his hands on my flesh.

He took my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth before biting on a finger playfully. Then he said what we were both thinking, and I smiled.

"I think we're going to have to find a new spot."


	2. Assignment 1 Ficology:HumanVamp

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**  
Ficology: The Human/Vampire Reproductive System  
By SaintsMistress  
**Assignment #1: Write a lemon using a Karma Sutra position you've never come across in a fic before**

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight  
Warning: This is a dark E/B fic with brutal sex

The positions I used can be found at (remove spaces and add dot and forward slash):  
www. sexinfo101 dot com forwardslash sp_dancer. shtml  
www. sexinfo101 dot com forwardslash sp_standandcarry. shtml

Thank you **dreaminginnorweigen** and **IReen H** for the tattoo inspiration!

* * *

**Nightshade**

Her body is as beautiful as it is profane. A twisted roadmap inked in jet black, midnight blue, and blood red—highways and intersections I could read so easily if only I had the key. But she's a strange girl in a strange room, so I don't know what that wolf on her forearm is howling about, and I couldn't tell you why the snake coiled around her bicep drips venom from its pointed fangs. The story behind the flowering nightshade on her breastbone is, likewise, a mystery. I don't know what any of the tattoos covering her chest and arms mean, but I don't really care. I won't know her long enough to ask, and when I'm done with her, she won't mind that I didn't.

She's different, and for tonight that's enough to draw my interest.

At first glance, she fits in with the wasted morons fluttering around the dance floor. The room is dark and the music loud, but even that can't disguise the ridiculous way they bump and writhe—black lips and pale faces made up to look like beautiful corpses; flowery Victorian lace shirts and velvet jackets; needy eyes saddened by the burden of middle-class affluence and a dearth of real tragedy to draw from. Little Goth princes and princesses ruling their morose kingdom.

My magnificent tragedy fits in with these poseurs well enough—her tats give her a free pass in a place like this (much like my own preternaturally pale skin and affinity for wearing black)—but she's not one of them. I can see it in the way she moves through the crowd, like she's horny and angry but can't decide whether she'd rather fuck or fight. I can see it in her haunted brown eyes and the protective way she holds herself apart—like a polarized magnet, pushing people away with invisible force. Unlike the gloom these others pretend at, she has real darkness in her soul.

That's something to feed from if ever there was.

She's not my usual type, so my usual approach doesn't feel right. Normally, a pointed glance and a couple whispered words are enough to get a vapid girl away for a quick bang and a bite in the alley. But this girl is different. She won't be an easy conquest. She's not going to be swayed by my pretty face or offer to buy her a drink. I can tell—she's the conquering type.

I decide to take the gamble and see if she'll come to me. I swirl my untouched scotch and lean against the bar, hoping my little painted butterfly will be drawn into my web. It takes half an hour—time enough for me to turn down half a dozen desperate, ankh-wearing girls and boys—but she does come. And just like everything else about her, her words are a delightful surprise.

"You look like an asshole."

I'm angled away from her, so I can't see her face, but I know the moment she approaches. She's in my tractor beam; I have a lock on her.

She's rewarded with a grin as I turn to face her. I take a moment to enjoy the view before answering. She looks even more enticing up close—the tight black wife-beater and short denim skirt she's wearing leave so little to the imagination. I'm not talking about the obvious. Yes, perfect tits. Epic legs. But how fucking pedestrian is it to notice what anyone can see? No, what I'm loving in this moment is the delicate scattering of peach fuzz on her arm—soft blonde hair over a kaleidoscope of color. Delicious.

What does she expect from me? What does she expect of this "asshole"? Should I tell her to fuck off? Offer to take her home and show her how nice I can be? No. None of that will work on her. She's as desperate for something interesting as I am. Then it hits me, and I realize I don't have to play games with her at all.

"You're one to talk, little girl. Either you're trying too hard, or not hard enough."

My painted princess glares daggers at me—sharp as the one decorating the wrist of her right arm—but says nothing. Her expression tells me she's confused and offended, but the rush of desire flooding her panties tells me that's not a bad thing. She smells exquisite, like burnt sugar and danger. I swallow down the venom pooling in my mouth and smirk.

"Nobody decorates their body like that unless they want to push people away or draw them in. But you obviously don't belong here with the Morrissy fan club, so which is it? Trying hard to fool all these people into thinking you're one of them? Or not trying hard enough to let them know just how beneath you they really are?"

She gasps in surprise, and for a moment I think I've shattered that defensive front she shows the world. But it's just a flickering vulnerability, and her wall is back in place almost instantaneously.

"Fuck you. You don't know me."

"No, no, no," I say with mock-disappointment, leaning in. The fine hairs on her neck stand at attention as my cool breath washes over her. "We were doing so well. There's no need to pretend with me. We both want the same thing."

She huffs and pulls away, all trace of her faltering confidence gone. Derision alights in her eyes.

"And what exactly do you think it is I want?"

She's so sure of herself. She thinks she knows exactly what I'll say: _You want to fuck me._ It's startling and true—it might impress someone less interesting than her. I could say that. And maybe she would fuck me. But I'd never have her then—she'd have me. Her game. Queen takes all. Even if all she left behind was a beautiful corpse, she'd still be the beautiful corpse that had won.

So once again, I aim for the _deeper_ truth, suddenly scared by how invested I am in hitting my mark.

"You want to watch the world burn."

Her breath catches in her throat, and I know I've hooked her. This is no hollow success. I've known her all of five minutes, and already I feel like I could spar with her forever. But disappointment pricks at me as I realize that's not how these things go. It's not in my nature to string my meals along.

For a moment I consider letting her go. Tell her to piss off and take her exquisite pain somewhere else. But I can't bring myself to do it. I have to know how the soft wet space between her legs feels. I have to know how she tastes—inside and out.

"Come."

I take her hand and drag her through the crowd. She keeps pace easily, her black Doc Martins stomping a path behind me. She doesn't resist. I knew she wouldn't, but it's a victory nonetheless. We skirt our way past the strobing dance floor to a dark hallway near the rear of the club. Before she understands what's happening, I've pressed her against an unmarked door next to the emergency exit, and my tongue is in her mouth. She meets my kiss and scrabbles at my neck with her nails.

_Holy fuck!_

She tastes better than I imagined. I feel the pulse of blood in her mouth and fight the urge to bite down. We need privacy. Now.

My hand trails away from the perfect curve of her hips, and I find the doorknob behind her. I twist it, breaking the flimsy lock and pushing her through the threshold.

"Jesus, you're cold!" she says as we break from the kiss.

I slam the door behind us and flip the light switch on the wall. A dim bulb flickers to life overhead. I don't need it to see, but it will put her at ease, and I want to take my time before we get to the terror portion of the evening.

"Poor circulation. It's a condition," I say as I take in the contents of the room.

We're in a supply closet—boxes of liquor are stacked almost to the exposed pipes adorning the low ceiling. The bartenders and bouncers were occupied when we came in. No one will be disturbing us.

She takes a few paces back, mirroring my steps as I prowl toward her. A secret smile plays on her face, like any minute now the joke is going to be on me, and my dead heart aches for how utterly misinformed she is. Her arousal is perfuming the air, drawing around us more thickly with each passing second. I take a deep breath just before closing the distance and pulling her hips flush against mine.

"Do you know how delicious you are?" I like this girl, but I have to remember she's just a means to an end. She's a fuck and a meal, that's all. "I wonder if you taste that good everywhere."

Her only reply is a choked breath as my right hand skims over her ass and around to the front of her thigh. I lift her skirt and dip two fingers under her panties. She gasps as I find her dripping and ready. I stroke once, twice. Then my fingers are in my mouth, tasting her, and _Jesus Christ!_ it's amazing. It's like she's the embodiment of sin. Decadent. Perfect.

An involuntary growl rumbles out of me as the beast inside stakes his claim.

She kisses me hard, exploring my mouth eagerly, tasting herself on me. Then she nips down my chin and over my neck, mewling as one hand finds its way under my shirt and the other grips me over my jeans.

_So good. For fucks sake, this is so good!_

I can't take it any longer. I have to be inside her now. In one quick move, I push her skirt up over her thighs and rip her panties from her hips. My zipper is down and my cock released from its confines before my little tattooed temptress has a chance to protest. When I reach for her leg, she hitches it up and around my waist with ease. As I slam into her in one swift stroke, she pushes her hips forward to meet mine, sighing and groaning in the same breath.

_Oh God, let this go on forever!_

My fingers press into her hips, adding five-petaled purple and black flowers to her decorated skin. I want to take the time to see them blossom, but I know I'll never last that long. She digs her boot into my ass as we come together over and over again—like she wants to hurt me, like she wants me to feel some of the pain I know she'll endure before things are said and done. But all I can feel is her slick, hot, perfect cunt and her scorching breath flaming across my shoulder.

The beast inside is growling for _more!_ and I appease him, slamming up into her until her foot is dangling from the floor and my hands are the only things holding her in place. She pulls her second leg up around my waist and plants her arms on my shoulders, letting loose a glorious string of profanities.

"Fuck you. . . oh, God. . . so good. . . don't stop . . . fuck. . . please. . . don't ever stop."

A growl roars out of me, and I work harder and faster, so close to doing real damage, teetering on the edge of breaking her. But I'm helpless against her heat—she's an inferno and I'm the forest, fuel to her fire. Her head falls back, rocking in time with our thrusts, and I take a moment to enjoy the tattoos on display. The nightshade blossom on her breastbone is particularly vibrant, the pointed yellow stinger in the center poised and ready for attack. I dip my mouth and lick along the violet petals. The sweat adorning her skin adds a pleasant salty kick to her natural sweetness.

"Oh, yes. God, yes!"

Her thighs tighten around me as she flings her arms up, grasping a low-hanging pipe for leverage. I rock into her again and again, feeling the pressure build in my groin, fighting the burning urge to end it fast. I know my teeth will find their mark as I come, and it'll be over then. She'll be over. And I'll have nothing left but a broken little doll with vacant eyes.

The thought sends an unfamiliar jolt of horror through me. It's crushing, the idea of never again having her, never again claiming her in this way. I want more time. I need more time!

Just as I'm about to slow things down, I feel her clamp down on me, her walls pulsing around me as she comes. A scream rips out of her—the most delicious, primal sound I've ever heard—and she collapses against my shoulder, arms falling limply to her sides.

I keep her upright and draw her orgasm out with long strokes, suddenly resigned to my fate. It'll be over soon enough, and I'll go back to what I was before. A predator with a talent for luring easy marks. A hunter.

_It's what I do—it's what I am_, I tell myself.

My strokes lose their rhythm as heat works its way up my thighs and into where we're joined. I slam into her again and again as the flame pulses through me. My teeth are bared and ready—I'm going to make this one count. I'm going to revel in the feel of my painted princess milking my cock as I drain her dry.

But she's not done surprising me.

Just as I build to that perfect high, she reaches around me and pulls something from her boot. As the blade slides harmlessly across my stone neck, I understand at last: she's the one. This twisted devil, this murderous beauty is as much a predator as I. She's mine, just as I'm hers. My other half.

Her eyes widen in shock as the knife clatters uselessly to the floor. My orgasm pounds through me, and I spare a moment to burn her expression to memory as I slam into her one last time. Her pelvis cracks with the force of my thrust, and she howls out in pain. She's terrified, confusion and agony shuddering through her entire frame.

For a moment, I feel a twinge of regret for hurting her, but I know in the end she'll mend. She's my goddess—my mate—and she'll be flawless. A hunting machine with no rival.

_Except, perhaps, me._

As the perfect sensation of my release starts to fade, I lower my mouth and kiss once along an unadorned ivory patch of skin on her neck. Then my teeth find their mark, and her beautiful essence is flowing hot and fast down my throat while she screams. I savor every drop, knowing how hard it will be to pull away, knowing in the end I _must_.

Her heartbeat slows, and she squeaks out a tired protest, grasping at me with limp hands.

"Don't. . ." I'm disappointed her final words are so expected, so predictable. But I suppose no one is perfect. Then she weakly breathes the rest of her plea, and I know what a treasure I've found.

". . . stop. Don't stop."

This is one command I cannot obey, but she'll forgive me in time. I take a last lingering swipe at her neck, pooling venom into the open wound before sealing it off. I draw her down to the ground and pull out of her at last—already mourning the loss of her warm flesh.

As my goddess starts the painful process of her change, I examine the bright bloom over her heart once more.

_Of course,_ I think with a smirk, _I had the key all along. Nightshade is poisonous. Deadly, in fact._


	3. Assignment 2 NonGratuitous Lemon

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**  
Lesson: Writing the Non-Gratuitous Lemon  
By LyricalKris  
**Assignment #2: One of your couple is hiding something. The guilt is eating them alive. It leaks into everything, bleeds into a moment of passion, of love. They try to lose themselves in the moment, the pleasure, but they can't.**

**Extra credit: Write your lemon without the use of graphic words: cock, penis, vagina, hole, pussy, insert, etc. Try to write the act with emotion rather than play by play description.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight

* * *

**Compass**

"Okay. Open your eyes."

She did as instructed, and for a moment, Alice felt an all-over smile take hold. She was grinning from her glittery black toenails to the tips of her artfully disheveled hair, a flush of warmth traveling the expanse of her slight frame. Then she remembered, and her grin melted away—slowly, painfully. Like ice cream puddling on the sidewalk.

Jasper was fond of showering her with little reminders of his affection. He had a habit of hiding love notes in her favorite books, in her car, in her locker at school. She'd uncover them like forgotten treasures—sometimes months after he'd planted them. He would ditch fourth period to drive across town just so she could have her favorite hamburger at lunch without missing class. He snuck into her room in the early hours of the morning to put water and aspirin on her nightstand after a night of excess at Mike Newton's Homecoming Dance after-party. He was always doing things like this, but it was a special day, so she wasn't surprised he'd taken it a step further tonight.

Bon Iver played softly in the background, pleading for patience from a skinny love. Candles on the nightstand flickered in the dim light of her room, a scattering of rose petals mapped out a heart on her bedspread, and a clumsily-wrapped package was propped on her pillows. He'd even arranged for an empty house, procuring tickets to the Phish concert for her aunt Esme and uncle Carlisle. His love, which was always like a warm blanket around her, was suddenly suffocating—too much to bear.

She eyed the romantic scene with a tight smile.

"Jazz, you didn't have to do this. It's too much."

He smiled his trademarked dimpled grin—the one that had made her weak in the knees the first time he'd introduced himself; the one that still made her knees weak. She felt betrayed by her body, the way it was sending signals her heart wasn't prepared to deal with right now.

"Aw, baby, don't be silly. Two years is a big deal. In high school time, that's like a 30th wedding anniversary!"

She turned to him and did a little releve, lifting up on the balls of her feet to peck his lips. It was the only thank you she could manage. She felt like a fraud, and she wondered if he would be so eager to shower her with affection if he knew what she was going to do.

He reached into his pocket—eyes gleaming and dimples deepening—and pulled out a small keychain. There was a compass floating inside the plastic bubble attached to the chain, the arrow pointing to him, pointing to true north. It was their thing. Her collection of compasses held pride of place on the shelf above her vanity, cheap souvenirs mingling with expensive hiking models and rusted antiques. He'd given her the first one a week after he approached her in the lunch room on her first day of school.

"You look lost," he had said, his honey-warm voice sending shivers down her spine. "Can I help?"

He had no idea how lost she was. She'd moved in with Esme and Carlisle the month before, and it had taken all that time, but at last they had insisted she enroll in school. She couldn't sit alone in the house anymore. Her parents' death wasn't getting easier to deal with, but she was getting better at hiding the pain.

Mostly.

She'd been thinking of them as she stood there with an untouched tray of food in her hands, blocking the flow of traffic in the lunch room, making herself a target for whispers and stares so early into her arrival at Forks High.

Jasper shook her out of her melancholic reverie with his startling robin's egg blue eyes, and for a second—just a second—she forgot why her whole heart ached. She let him and his dimples lead her to class, feeling excited and uneasy by his proximity. Before long, he knew what courses she took and sought her out in the hallways, trailing her to Painting or French II whenever their schedules allowed. He was drawn to her elfin face and sad eyes. He wanted to make them sparkle. When he presented her with a toy compass a week later, he explained the silly gift thus: "So you can find your way, even when I'm not around."

And her eyes had sparkled—for a moment. Long enough for him to know he was hooked; he'd do anything to see them shine like that all the time.

From then on, a new compass marked every special occasion. Her birthday. Sadie Hawkins and Prom. Her first place ribbon in the school art fair. The day they both opened acceptance letters to Northwest University. A compass for each occasion. A small reminder that she was never alone, never lost, even when he wasn't there to help her find her way.

Alice took the new keychain from Jasper and set it on the shelf, avoiding his reflection in the mirror on her vanity. Avoiding her own reflection. She balled her hands into fists and willed herself to let go of her guilt—if only briefly—to focus on him and his love.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve her distance on this, of all nights. He deserved a girlfriend who could look him in the eyes and feel his smile filling her up. He deserved a girlfriend who remembered how much just breathing in and out had hurt before she met him. A girlfriend who could show him how much she adored him, even if some of her actions said otherwise.

She took a deep breath and turned. He was here. Her life. Her love. Her Jasper. It was stupid not to take advantage of every second they had left together.

"Thank you. This is amazing."

She stood up on her toes and wound her fingers through his curly hair, giving him a real kiss this time and wiping the slate on her troubled thoughts. They could talk later. Right now, it was their anniversary, and she would celebrate that in the way he deserved.

As their kiss deepened, Jasper wrapped his arms around her and lifted up until her toes were skimming the floor. She loved how strong he was, how he could carry her and her hurt like they both weighed nothing. He walked them across the room and turned, sitting down on the bed. She put her legs on either side of his lap, straddling him, and noticed the scent of rose petals perfuming the air around them. He felt warm and comforting in her arms. He felt like home.

After a while, Jasper broke the kiss and grinned.

"I'm glad you like my surprise. I wasn't sure how you'd feel about me messing up your bed."

"You've messed up my bed plenty of times," she teased, wiggling her hips against him. "I've never minded before."

Then her eyes caught the poster of _The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville_ hanging above her headboard and the mirth drained out of her. She couldn't do this. She couldn't go slow and sweet. She couldn't let herself stop and think.

She fisted his shirt and lifted up, grunting in annoyance when he didn't immediately raise his arms to help. He caught on soon enough and assisted her with a chuckle.

"A little eager, darlin'?"

Alice ignored his comment, taking her own shirt off and attacking him with her lips a moment later. He fell back on the bed as she poured her strained passion into him. She needed to feel the heat between them. Needed to prove her love. Not to him—to herself.

She shifted off his lap and kissed down his neck. Her hand skimmed the fabric of his jeans, clumsy fingers working the zipper.

"Whoa, sugar, slow down. What's the rush?" Jasper sat up on his elbows and eyed her with confusion. "We've got all evening. Esme and Carlisle won't be back until at least midnight."

She said nothing as she continued to place wet kisses along his sternum while working the frustrating closure of his pants one-handed. At last, she huffed and pulled away far enough to use both hands. With little fanfare, she reached into his boxers and squeezed.

"Jesus, Alice!" Jasper gasped and sat up, grasping her by the shoulders and halting her movement. Her aggression was so completely out of character, it was disarming. "What's going on with you?"

She sighed and propped herself up on her knees, frustrated he wouldn't go along with this, wouldn't help her shut her stupid brain up.

"I want you, Jasper. Don't you want me?"

"Of course I want you, Ali. I just don't understand why you're acting like this is a race."

"Why do we always have to be so gentle? Why can't we just fuck every now and then?"

Jasper looked like he was trying to figure out the answer to a calculus problem. He loved the idea of Alice being overcome by passion for him, but this didn't feel like that. She didn't look like she was running to him; she looked like she was running away from something else.

He chose his words carefully, afraid to hurt her feelings, afraid to do anything that might derail their night.

"I would like that, darlin'," he murmured with an embarrassed grin. "I just get the sense that you're not really here with me right now."

"I'm here, Jazz. I'm right here." She took his hands and pulled them up to her chest, pressing them against the cups of her bra. She squeezed her hands over his and smiled. "See?"

He grinned through his sigh and left his hands in place in spite of his reservations, because, well—boobies.

"Can't you just take me? Please, I need you to do this."

There was something in her eyes that reminded him of those first months they were together—something dim and disconnected. Something aching. Mourning.

And just like all those months ago, he responded in the only way he knew how and promised himself he would do whatever it took to make that look go away. He couldn't bear to see her hurting.

"Come here."

Jasper was on her in a flash, flipping her over and crushing rose petals between her back and the comforter as he fumbled with the clasp on her bra. These damn things were always so confusing. Thankfully this one opened in the front, so at least he could see what he was doing. When she was free, he dipped his head and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently while his hand explored the other breast.

She arched into his touch, into the warmth of his mouth, feeling a tingle build deep inside. Her senses were finally taking over, finally silencing the turmoil of her mind. She rubbed her thighs together and prayed for more. He acquiesced, lifting her skirt and palming her over her underwear.

"More. _Please_," she urged. "Take them off."

He didn't let himself process any of this, afraid he'd be forced to stop if he really thought about it. She was begging him, for God's sake. He would give her what she wanted. And if she wanted to be fucked, he'd do it.

He stood up and dropped his jeans and boxers, toeing them aside. Grasping her thighs, he pulled Alice toward him until her bottom was kissing the edge of the mattress. He bent her knees and placed her feet on his stomach for leverage. Then he grasped the waist of her skirt, pulling it and her underwear off in one swift move. He paused for a second to admire how lovely she was, but she didn't let him linger on those delicious thoughts.

"_Jasper_."

Without any of the quiet connection they'd shared so many times, he stepped between her thighs and rubbed himself against her. The fact that there'd been a serious lack of foreplay was evident, so he wet two fingers with his mouth and pushed them inside her, hoping to help her along. When she seemed ready, he took a deep breath and steadied himself.

He was doing this for her. Even if it felt wrong—even if it somehow felt like blasphemy. Because she needed it, and he always did what Alice needed.

Then with one quick plunge, he was inside her. For a moment, Alice stilled—and Jasper with her—her body tensing like a wound spring. Then something unreadable passed across her face, and she breathed out a sigh. As she relaxed, so did Jasper, and he started to rock against her.

She felt good, but the angle was wrong, so Jasper stood up tall, pulling her hips with him. He wrapped her legs around his waist, leaving her back arching into the air and her head and shoulder blades resting on the bed below.

_She is so small_, he thought,_ like a fragile little doll._

But that was not what one thought when they were "fucking" their girlfriend, so he pushed the idea down and tried to focus on the task at hand.

His rhythm started out tentative, but she wasn't having that, and he increased it at her insistence.

"Faster, baby. Harder."

Before long, Jasper was sweating with the effort of holding her aloft, and his hands ached. He was sure she would have bruises on her hips in the morning, but he let it pass as he watched the blissful oblivion on Alice's face. She looked like she was floating—flying.

Alice _felt_ like she was flying. With each punishing thrust, she drifted further and further away from whatever nagging guilt had been tormenting her before. She felt weightless and free. Then something hot and insistent starting coiling in her belly, and she tensed in anticipation. She liked this feeling; she knew what followed.

But as she climbed that peak, with warmth spreading across her skin, her impending release felt more and more like an unwanted attack, not the beautiful high she'd been anticipating. She was suddenly terrified of letting go, terrified about what she would find on the other side of that crest, and she writhed on the bed in an attempt to fight it off.

Jasper mistook her frenzied movements for passion and carried on. It was inevitable now, she realized, but still she scratched and clawed and struggled against her release until the last. Then she was falling, breaking, shattering into a million horrible pieces, and it was all wrong. She was an exposed nerve—raw, unprotected. Her heart hurt, and choking sobs burst out of her.

"Oh God, Alice! Baby, what's wrong?" He pulled out of her—all sense of urgency and need eradicated—and wrapped her in his arms on the bed. "Did I hurt you? Oh, fuck! I can't believe—"

"No," she choked, unable to get out anything more coherent as she cried.

He rocked her and ran his fingers through her hair, combing out bruised rose petals.

"Please, darlin', don't cry."

He felt helpless. Clueless. He had no idea what any of this night was about, and for a moment he imagined his sweet, brilliant, amazing Alice had been possessed. He wiped the thought away and tried to comfort her as best he could.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay." He murmured the words over and over like a mantra, willing them to be true.

She settled into his embrace, and he pulled her tighter. The tension was easing from her muscles, the rasping cries quieting. For the first time in hours, Jasper felt like _his_ Alice—not that unrecognizable stranger—was back in his arms. He was afraid to talk, afraid to break the spell. He needed her to be okay. He couldn't bear it if he'd done something to push her away for good.

The candles on her nightstand cast flickering shadows on the wall, but everything else was silent and still. Finally, Alice's cracking voice interrupted the quiet.

"I'm sorry."

Jasper could feel the gears turning in his head as he tried to process that.

"You're sorry? Sugar, what on earth are you sorry for?"

"I lied."

None of this was making any sense. He just wanted Alice to tell him what was wrong so he could fix it.

"What do you mean?"

She sighed and pulled away to look him in the eyes.

"It wasn't a lie, exactly. More of an omission, I guess. I've kept something from you, and I'm so scared you're going to hate me when I tell you."

"Mary Alice Brandon. There is nothing you could _ever_ say that would make me hate you." His blue eyes flared, and she hoped he was telling the truth.

"I love you so much, Jazz. Before I say anything else, you have to promise me you believe that. _Please_."

"I believe you, darlin'," he said with rising trepidation. "I know you love me."

She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction.

"Our deposits were due today," she said at last.

"What?"

"For Northwest. Our deposits. To hold our spots."

Jasper's confusion played across his face. Why was she talking about this?

"Yeah, but we sent those months ago. I mean, I did. Didn't you?"

Alice looked like she was preparing herself for the worst.

"I didn't. I didn't send it."

Jasper felt an unbelievable sense of relief. Was this it? She was worried about some paperwork? Some formality? How had this silly worry done so much damage?

"Well, that's okay," he said with an indulgent smile. "I'm sure we can call them. Explain you forgot. It'll be fine, baby. Nothing to freak out over."

"No, Jazz, I didn't send it because I'm not going."

The smile fell from his face. He replayed the words in his mind to make sure he'd heard right.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I'm not going to Northwest."

"Is this about money? Is there a problem with the will? If your parents didn't leave you enough, I'm sure Esme and Carlisle could help. We'll ask my parents to pitch in, we'll get jobs. We'll make it work, Ali."

He was speeding along like a runaway train, afraid if he stopped talking she'd start. Afraid he wouldn't like what she had to say.

"Jazz, stop. Please, just listen."

He felt exposed, more than naked—flayed. But he did as asked and kept his mouth closed.

"I've been thinking about this for a while. My parents. They were so young. They thought they had so much time. They used to talk about quitting their jobs and opening a restaurant. Did I ever tell you that?"

He shook his head in reply, uncertain where she was going with this.

"They both loved cooking, but they weren't formally trained, and they had all these bills to keep up with. But they had dreams. They wanted a little place on the water. They even had a name picked out. _Brandon's_."

Alice got a little wistful look on her face, a small smile brought about by the memory. Then she shook the thought away, and continued. Her eyes were suddenly steely, determined.

"But they never did anything about it. They stayed in their stupid, miserable jobs because they always thought, _Next year. Next year we'll save more. Next year we'll give it a try_. But they never _had_ a next year. They waited and waited, and then it was too late."

Her eyes filled with unshed tears, but she shook them away. She wasn't going to break down. She wasn't going to be weak.

"I don't want to do that. I don't want to put my dreams on hold for the practical things I _should_ be doing today. I don't want to waste my life waiting for the perfect conditions. Because it's _short_, Jazz. Life is so fucking short."

Then the tears did fall, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Jasper brushed them from her cheeks and kissed her. He knew this wasn't going to end well for him, but it didn't matter. Alice held his heart, and he'd be strong for her no matter what.

"What are you going to do, Alice?"

For the first time all night, the sparkle returned to her eyes. Jasper reveled in it, so happy to see its return. He realized then he'd do anything to keep it there.

"I'm going to Paris. I'm gonna live in a closet and paint the Eiffel Tower and sit on the Seine and drink wine and _live_. I just wanna live, Jazz."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. I have enough set aside to survive for a year, I think. Then I don't know. Maybe college. Maybe not."

"And us?" he asked, his voice cracking.

This was the question Jasper dreaded. How she answered this would change the course of his entire future.

"I love you, Jazz. I can't imagine ever not loving you. Do you think you can wait?"

"I'd fly to the stars for you, Alice. I'd wait until the end of time. As long as I knew you were coming back. Please tell me you'll come back."

"Always. I can't stay away from my heart, I'd never survive."

His smile was bright and unrestrained, and his dimples made her blood thrum.

"Then you'll be needing this to remind you where your heart is."

He pulled the forgotten present from her pillows and handed it to her. With trembling fingers, she tore the wrapping off and opened the box.

She smiled as she pulled the shirt out. A beacon of her love. A compass to point her home.

"I'll wear it everyday," she said, as she pulled the soft fabric over her head.

_Northwest University_ was emblazoned across her heart.


	4. Assignment 3 Virgin Scene

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012  
**Lesson: Writing a Virgin Scene by Opal Aline

**Assignment #3: Write a scene featuring two virgins – any pairing is fine, so long as both are virgins.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, The Sandman, or the Bee Gees.

A quick Google search will give you info on Neil Gaiman's Desire

* * *

**How Deep Is Your Love?**

For some people there's a sudden understanding, a flash of insight that shines new light on everything that's come before. Others experience a slow burn, a gradual shift in the way the world looks, in the way it works. Laws you once thought immovable become fuzzy and distorted. Gravity tilts, and you find yourself slowly twisting upside down.

It wasn't that way for me—no sudden shift, no slow burn. I just always knew.

When Mike Newton pulled Lauren Mallory's pigtails, I didn't feel jealous of his hands on her hair. I didn't wish I could make her squeal and jump that way. I didn't want to feel her hot on my tail, scolding me and flirting in the innocent, giggling way a six-year-old does. I wanted to _be_ her—chasing Mike's retreating form across the field, watching his legs pump strong and fast as my own long strides drew me closer to him.

It always was. I always knew.

But in this, like everything else, Jasper Whitlock is an anomaly.

He's a beautiful boy, my Jazz. He struts and crows, without the accompanying ego you would expect from someone so charismatic. He draws people in effortlessly—with his heavenly voice, with his kind heart, and the confidence born of someone who has always been told he is exactly right, just the way he is.

I honestly don't believe he thinks about people as gay or straight, man or woman. I think he sees people. People he likes. People he wants to spend time with. People he's drawn to. Perhaps I did something right in a previous life, because this boy—this amazing boy—has somehow been drawn to me.

There was never a question of whether I would like him, of course. He was the only thing I could see that first day. Sitting on the main campus lawn after moving my overstuffed suitcases into the dorm. Praying for Mom and Dad to make a hasty exit and afraid of being alone once they did. He was bouncing up and down like a child strung out on pixie sticks, already surrounded by a throng of freshmen who _just knew_ he was somebody special. His curly blond hair peeked out from under a thrift store porkpie hat—an affectation that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow fit him perfectly. Coiled fairy tresses hung over his ears—an effeminate touch that contrasted with his strong jaw and bobbing Adam's apple. He was tall and lean, an androgynous angel attracting suitors of all stripes, no matter their gender or sexual orientation. He was Neil Gaiman's Desire—a thing of beauty to all, a magnet drawing you in, a god.

For a long time, to me, he was the boy who lived upstairs. By some twist of fate, his room was directly over my own, which meant his late-night jam sessions provided the soundtrack to my otherwise lonely evenings—a phantom voice accompanying an acoustic guitar or two, the lines of _Bobby McGee_ and _Caleb Meyer_ floating down through his floor and wrapping me in their warm embrace. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine him singing me to sleep. It was beautiful—his voice. Sweet and smooth like clover honey, as varied and complex as the colors of a dragonfly's wing. I'd find myself drifting off to his lullaby, smiling at my tremendous fortune. Then a shrill laugh through the ceiling would puncture my fantasy, and I'd remember my place. Just an anonymous face, just another in a line of dozens who volleyed for his affection.

Jasper has told me there was never one flash of insight—no big moment that suddenly drew me into his awareness. It was a series of small things, instead. A collection of incidental encounters that turned us from strangers on a stairwell, to a face he recognized in the cafeteria, to passing acquaintances, to real friends, and at last, more.

The night he kissed me was like most others—but so unlike them in the end. We were still teetering on the edge of friendship, toying with familiarity. I'd somehow made it into the inner sanctum, huddled there in his room with the worshiping congregation as he covered Beatles tunes and Dar Williams, The Swell Season and Adele. I am more comic book geek than music junkie, so that hard floor was my classroom, my master class on the sounds that turned him on. The music that made the light in his soul a tangible thing, something those of us lucky enough to be present could almost taste. We fed off him for hours, drawing in everything he was willing to share—just like he fed off us. Our energy. Our love.

I didn't notice when the others trickled out and returned to their rooms, but suddenly we were alone, his leg resting casually against mine as he strummed a tune I didn't recognize. It's amazing how something as small as that—two bodies meeting at a specific point—can be both inconsequential and life-changing at once. For me, the whole world was in that connection—his knee against my thigh—a universe of meaning to a boy who did not touch, was never touched. But it was nothing for Jasper. Nothing but a casual position he'd assumed without thought, drawn as he was to physical affection in any form.

I clung to the last notes of the guitar as they reverberated slowly away, knowing my time was near, knowing I'd have to leave him soon.

He set the instrument aside and yawned, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back to rest against the edge of the bed. I readied myself for the inevitable, relishing a last look at the fine chest hair peeking out from the V in his unbuttoned shirt. I liked taking him in incrementally, honing in on the shell of his ear or following the faint lines of blue that wound from his inner elbow to wrist. There was so much in the details—the calloused pads of his fingers that bespoke years dedicated to string work, the fine lines around his eyes that whispered tales of his uninhibited laugh. It was all there—easy to read. Easy to love.

When he turned his head and opened his eyes, I knew I had been caught. My breath lodged in my throat, and I felt my eyes well as I waited for his kind, but firm, rejection. But there was no flicker of disgust in the deep blue. No subtle drawing away.

Instead, he took my hand and said, "Wanna stay? I don't really like sleeping alone."

The casual invitation stunned me. I grasped for a response, too shocked to ask whether he meant stay _here_ on the floor or _there_ in his bed. I didn't need to speak, though, because he tugged on my hand as he pulled us up to stand, answering my question.

"You don't have to. It just looked like you weren't quite ready to leave."

And I wasn't. I never wanted to leave. But I was confused, too. While he'd never shown an objection to the company of guys, it was always girls who earned a squeeze on the hip or a peck on the temple at the end of the night. It was always girls creeping away from his room in the early hours of the morning.

He smiled as he waited patiently for my response. I'm sure he could see me trying to work this all out.

_Is he gay? Is he bi? Is he just lonely?_

Surely, he knew how I felt about him. In general, I made no effort to hide my sexual orientation, so I was certain it was obvious to anyone paying attention (not that anyone paid much attention.) And he'd just caught me blatantly drooling over him. If he was inviting me to his bed, did that mean—

He halted my racing brain with an indulgent smirk.

"It's not a big deal. I really do plan on sleeping."

I was in awe that he didn't feel the need to define what this was, what he was offering. Like sleeping in a bed with him was of no more consequence than shaking his hand or sharing an elevator.

_Do friends do this? Do guys who don't want to kiss and touch and taste. . . do this?_

I didn't think so, but I had no frame of reference. I could number my friends on a single hand and my lovers on a closed fist. I didn't know anything.

Anything more than the unwavering certainty I would not be turning his offer down.

"O-kay," I stuttered. Perhaps one of a dozen words I'd ever spoken to him. "Thanks."

"Which side do you want? I'm usually by the wall, but it doesn't really matter." Like he did this all the time. Like he had a routine.

_How many people have shared his bed? How many spend the night fully clothed?_

These questions should have bothered me more than they did. But I didn't care. No matter how many people had come before, I was here now.

"This is fine," I said as I set myself gingerly on the outside edge of the bed.

I averted my eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head and cursed the gods when his pants stayed in place. I waited for him to crawl to "his side", then laid down stiffly on my back, my gaze glued to the ceiling. The bed was small, and even with him pressed against the wall and on his side facing me, we were still touching. His knees kissed my thigh, his fingers brushed against my upper arm. I could feel my pulse thumping everywhere we connected as my heart beat a relentless rhythm against my chest.

His eyes were on me, his curious intensity drawing rosy blooms across my cheeks and down my neck. It was a scrutiny both desired and unnerving. A relief to _finally_ be of some interest to someone, but a terror to be naked under his gaze.

"Do you have a middle name?"

It took me a moment to fit the key into the lock, to filter the words through my brain in a way that made any sense in this context. Then I decided all this would be so much easier if I just fucking stopped trying to figure it out. So that's what I did.

"Anthony."

"Edward Anthony Cullen."

I liked how he said my whole name—slowly, rhythmically. Like he was testing it out. Like he was turning the individual syllables into a song.

"Well, Edward Anthony Cullen, I like you. I can tell you have a really good heart."

I melted into a puddle of goo right then. I mean, I knew it didn't make me special. It wasn't unlike him to throw around stream of consciousness compliments like that. I'd heard more blatant uses of hyperbole during the heat of the moment when he was playing ("You're a fucking god on the guitar, Dru," or "Sarah's got butterflies in her soul—look at the way they flutter!")

But he was talking about me. He said he liked me. I had a good heart. I couldn't remember the last time someone not directly related to me had said anything as kind. I couldn't remember the last time anyone took a moment to notice me at all.

I was sinking, hard and fast. If this turned out to be a fluke, a momentary lapse of judgment on his part, I wasn't sure I could take it. I couldn't go back to being the anonymous boy in the corner now that he'd shined his light on me. Now that I had been seen.

"I'd like to try something."

I held still as he drew his hand up to my face and brushed his thumb across my cheek. Then he tugged gently and I followed, my head turning toward him, my eyes full of his brilliant blue. In slow motion I watched him approach; the gentle closing of his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips. Then his mouth was on mine, and everything else melted away. It was like everything I had imagined from a first kiss and like nothing I could have dreamed. His lips were firm, exploring. His tongue soft and surprising. But the feeling inside—the deep hollowing out of myself, the sudden silence of the gnawing voices of doubt in my mind—was overwhelming. It was like being taken over—no. Like giving myself over. Gladly. With abandon.

"That was really nice," he said as he broke the kiss. My eyes flew open, and I returned to this plane of existence. The tenor of his voice held the smallest bit of wonder—like he hadn't been sure what to expect, but was pleasantly surprised.

"I'd like to do that again sometime."

Then he put his arm around my waist and pulled me close, fitting our bodies together like spoons. He was relaxed and breathing deeply in minutes, while I spent the night reveling in the feel of his body pressed to mine and my heart glowing brighter than the sun.

* * *

I think about that moment, now, as Jasper's lips tickle the back of my neck. He knows just where to nibble. He knows all of me, really—inside and out. That first kiss was followed by more, lots more, but the first is always special. The first is the signet, the seal, on all that comes later.

Jasper bends low behind my chair and winds his arms around my waist, but I don't pause in my activity. This sketch is due tomorrow, and something's still not quite right.

My inspiration is obvious. Behind the horns and leathery, bat-like wings that hold him aloft, the angel-faced beauty floating above a screaming hoard possesses a not-so-shallow resemblance to my favorite blond-haired boy.

"Lucifer, huh?" Jazz says, looking over my shoulder. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted."

"Oh, you should definitely be flattered."

I drop the charcoal and turn in my seat, gracing him with a proper kiss. I keep silent about the black smudges I leave on his cheeks—for the moment, anyway. There is something infinitely sexy about marking him like this, showing the world that he is mine. Only mine.

"Lucifer is the most tempting creature known to man. Why wouldn't you be flattered?"

"And Loki last week? The Trickster? Should I be flattered by that, too?"

_I can't help it if he's my muse. How do I keep from drawing inspiration from a boy who is the living embodiment of desire?_

"Loki is very misunderstood."

Jasper lowers himself onto my lap, straddling me with a smirk. He winds his fingers through my hair and brushes his nose against mine. Eskimo kisses.

"Your professor is going to think you have no original ideas."

I tickle his sides and beam as he laughs and squirms against me.

"My professor thinks I'm brilliant, and he loves my work."

He arches a brow in disbelief, and his crooked grin tilts up.

_That's it!_

"Hold that!"

My love is a lot of wonderful things: an extraordinary musician, a fantastic songwriter, a surprisingly accomplished cook. He has talent beyond belief. But an artist's model he is not. He's too bouncy. Too full of bubbling excitement. He can't keep still.

I study his expression—capturing the arrogant tilt of his mouth, the disbelieving arch of his brow—but it's gone in seconds. With a quick kiss, I push Jazz off my lap and return to the sketch, filling in the missing details, the final piece of the puzzle.

"I see how you are. Use 'em and lose 'em."

"Don't be like that, baby. You know what it's like when you're in it."

Of course he does. He still plays regularly for people until one or two in the morning, just because he can't seem to put the guitar down. The only difference is, these days the party is in my room as often it is in his. We both have our addictions. But we're each other's greatest addiction, so we make room for the work—and we make room for forgiveness.

I sketch furiously—shading the brow, quirking the mouth—until at last it's right.

"There! See? That didn't take long."

When I turn he's gone, the door open wide, and I'm afraid I've really hurt his feelings this time. It took me a long time to learn not to panic in moments like this. For so long, I was terrified of doing something wrong, of pushing him away. _Pushing him into the arms of someone soft and round_, the little devil on my shoulder would whisper. One of a hundred girls who were lining up to give him things I couldn't.

But he always talked me down. He always reassured me I was the only one. And when I finally let myself believe it, it was like being turned inside out. Like feeling the shackles drop from my wrists after a lifetime of captivity. I could finally see that I had something to offer. His confidence—his ease in the world—trickled into me, and I started to feel what it was like to be a part of things, not just a silent observer. There aren't enough ways in the world to say thank you for such a thing, but I try. Everyday I try.

I've just decided to go seek him out in his room, when my shining Adonis struts through the open door, strumming his guitar and serenading me. As he picks the opening strains of the song, I take him in. He's added a cowboy hat to the long-sleeved, plaid cowboy shirt he's wearing—pearly white snaps gleaming down the front. The look is rounded out by a pair of ridiculously purple pants and white leather loafers. Full diva mode, I see.

I have hurt his feelings. He's going to need some serious attention tonight.

It only takes a few lines before I recognize the song. How he manages to keep a straight face while singing is beyond me.

"_I know your eyes in the morning sun . . . I feel you touch me in the pouring rain . . . And the moment that you wander far from me . . . I wanna feel you in my arms again._"

I hold back a snicker, because he is actually doing some lovely things with a very cheesy song. As Jasper saunters closer to me, I see an audience forming in the hallway behind him. Hoping to get in early on the evening show, most likely.

"_And you come to me on a summer breeze . . . keep me warm in your love and then softly leave_," he croons in a lovely falsetto. He's chastising me in song. Sigh.

"_And it's me you need to shooooowww. . . how deep is your love?_"

Behind him, the gawkers in the audience provide impromptu backup support, echoing softly and out of tune, "_How deep is your love?_"

"_I really need to learn!_" comes Jasper's reply, his enthusiasm boosted by the call and response. "_Cause we're living in a world of fools . . . breaking us down . . . when they all should let us be . . . we belong to you and me_."

I breathe a sigh of relief when he brings it to a close, and the onlookers cheer. It's for the best. I'm not sure I could look at him the same if I knew he had memorized all the lyrics to a Bee Gees song.

When the clapping peters out, I close the distance between us, leaning awkwardly over his guitar to give him the kiss he deserves for that performance—sloppy, silly, and full of passion. I hold up a finger as I pull away, silently asking him to wait a moment.

"Sorry, guys," I say, crossing to the door and moving to close it. "No show tonight. I have some making up to do with my boyfriend."

Then we're alone and grinning, and I know he's already decided to forgive me. He might make me work for it a bit, but then that's half the fun.

He pulls his guitar over his head and sets it down, knocking his hat off in the process. I pick it up and pop it onto my head.

"Hey!"

He can't help but smile through his mock-anger. I know how awkward I look when wearing any of the odd accessories my man can pull off with ease, and that's the point. I want to make him laugh.

"What do you think? Should I add this into the rotation?" He's always teasing me about my lack of imagination when it comes to my wardrobe. Black t-shirt and blue jeans. It never varies. It's like my uniform.

I'm waiting for him to tell me I look ridiculous, but he surprises me, of course. He always surprises me.

"I think you look highly fuckable in that." He draws an arm around my waist and pulls my hips close, emphasizing his point.

I suck in a sharp breath. It's not the first time he's said something like this, but it is the first time he's said it with that particular brand of hunger in his eyes.

"Oh yeah?"

I huff out a nervous chuckle. I'm not sure how serious he is, and it's exciting to think he might be_ very serious_.

We've talked about it. It's been important to take things slow, to build up. We've shared a whole lot of firsts together, and we want to make sure we're ready for the next step before it happens. Increasingly, I've been feeling like there's no longer any reason to wait. I trust him. I love him.

And I want him.

_Holy shit, do I want him._

Jasper's been cataloguing my face while all this has been running through my mind. He does this thing where he looks at me like he's seeing straight inside—like he's reading all of my secrets. It makes me feel exposed and a little squirmy. But warm, too. Loved. Because he always seems to like what he sees.

"E? What do you think? Can we try?"

God, his eyes are so blue. A contradiction—clear as a shallow pool, but deep like the ocean.

"Yeah. I want to try." I'm proud when my voice doesn't quiver. I'm not fooling anyone, but at least I don't sound terrified.

It's nothing but relief when his mouth finds mine, and he pushes me toward the bed. This I know. This is as familiar as breathing, and I don't have to think. The hat tumbles off as we tumble to the bed, and I revel in the feel of his body on mine, his weight pressing into me.

We are tangled limbs and eager touches. We are fumbling fingers and sharp gasps. We are the only two people in the world.

Before long, our clothes are gone, and Jasper is kissing his way down my chest. My stomach clenches in anticipation. His hand reaches his destination before his mouth, and I relax into his touch. Then he's smooth and wet and hot around me, and _Jesus fucking Christ, that feels good!_

I close my eyes to focus on the sensation. Soon, I'm driving hard and fast toward the finish line, and I start to feel a little panicky. I don't want this to end. I'm not ready yet.

Jasper's rhythm falters, and I hear him fumbling in the drawer on my end table. I relax a little. We're still in familiar territory. His hand leaves me, and I hear a wet noise down below. Then his finger is against me, slick and cold and circling slowly. He teases me with his hand as his mouth returns to its former focused attention. I push out a long breath and feel my body sink into the bed. Jasper reads my cues beautifully, easing a finger slowly inside and pausing to let me adjust.

After a moment, the discomfort turns into a pleasant pressure. By the time he begins to move, it feels really fucking good.

"Oh God, Jazz . . ."

He hums his approval, and I jump at the electrifying vibration. I feel him smile around me, so pleased with himself. My man. My puffed up little prince.

We're not flying completely blind here. We've talked about this. We've discussed the steps, the necessary preparations. But knowing intellectually what's about to happen is a hundred percent different from actually experiencing it.

So when I'm ready—when I'm so focused on his mouth and hands that nothing else makes sense—Jasper pulls away completely, jarring me back to reality. He sits on his heels and watches me as he slides a condom on, then pumps a handful of lube around himself.

He hovers over me, propping himself on the bed with his clean hand and kissing me.

"Edward . . . God, I love you."

I nod, absolutely speechless. He knows I love him; I just can't seem to get any words out right now.

"We can wait. If you want. There's no rush."

That puts an end to my silent tongue. "No, I don't want to wait. I'm ready."

It's his turn to be quiet, and he nods, a serious little smile playing on his face. He shifts backwards, encouraging my legs to open just a bit wider and tilting my pelvis up toward him. Then he's gently pressing against me, and I'm scared and excited and completely overwhelmed.

I feel myself start to panic, but Jasper softly coos, "Shhh . . . relax, baby. We'll take this very slowly."

He keeps to his word, pausing for a long while before gently easing forward.

Pause.

Adjust.

Press.

Pause.

Adjust.

Press.

I'm a little shocked when his hips are resting against my ass, and I realize he's made it all the way in . . . and I'm okay. I haven't been split wide open. I feel slightly uncomfortable and really _full_, but it doesn't hurt.

Jasper's face looks pained, and I can tell he's struggling to hold himself still. By degrees, I relax around him, breathing deeply and reminding myself that this is what I want, this is what we want. Connection. Intimacy. The ultimate display of our love.

I reach for his hand and squeeze, encouraging him to continue. He eyes me carefully. He must see what he's looking for, because he pulls out the slightest bit before easing back in.

"Ugh." _Okay, that's intense, but not bad. Not bad._

I think I'll feel better if I can relieve some of the pressure between my legs, so I grip myself and begin to pump slowly.

_Ahh . . . That's better._

Jasper's tight expression finally eases into something brighter, and he lets himself move a little faster. My eyes are drawn to the charcoal stains on his cheeks, and I smile. We've marked each other—staked our claims.

We're moving together now, the rhythm of my hand matching the snap of his hips. I still can't quite describe the sensation below as pleasurable, but it's edging toward something good. Teasing at the boundaries of enjoyment.

Jasper's rough breathing matches my own, and a bead of sweat drops from his brow to my chest. I watch in fascination as another falls.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

I feel myself falling into a sort of trance, lost in the rocking rhythm. Then Jasper shifts to adjust his angle. He's lower now, pressing up into me, and _oh my God!_ Suddenly I see what was missing before.

_It's good. It's so, so good!_

I cry out, and Jazz grunts in response. He's reigning himself in. I can tell he's close, but he's waiting for me.

I pump faster, gripping myself more tightly, and it doesn't take much to push me over the edge. My eyes slam shut, and for a split second everything disappears. Euphoric desolation. I'm nothing. Nowhere.

Then I'm back in a rush, and Jasper is here with me, and he's perfect and lovely and everything I've ever wanted.

He groans and grimaces, his face twisting into a mask of pleasure as his body stills. His arms are shaking with the effort to keep himself aloft, and at last he cries out and collapses against me in a tangle of sweaty limbs.

We breathe each other in, letting the moment wash over us—through us. I feel like jelly. Loose and tired and content.

_And sticky._

I snicker as I feel the evidence of my enjoyment squish between us.

"What are you laughing at, mister?" Jazz mumbles against my chest.

I run my clean hand through his hair, pushing the sweaty strands away from his face.

"We need a shower. Think the rest of the dorm will mind if we walk out there without anything on?"

His laugh is throaty and tired as it vibrates through my frame. His laughter is inside me. _He's_ inside me—filling me up.

Jasper reaches over the side of the bed and searches for something, blindly groping. Then he pulls his cowboy hat from the floor and props it on my head.

"There. Now you're wearing something."

The bed shakes with my uncontrollable cackling, and Jasper beams. From outside the door comes a chorus of muffled voices, and my cheeks burn hot in response. Jasper rocks against me as he chuckles, sounding like he's enjoying this entirely too much.

_The shower will have to wait._ The sound outside rises in volume, more people joining in. _Maybe until next week._

I smile as I listen to our ridiculous friends, knowing I'll have to face them sometime, but not yet ready to let go of my guy. He murmurs along with them, unable to keep himself from singing any time the opportunity presents itself. Even as I feel like a punchline, I can't help but love him all the more.

"_How deep is your love . ._ ."


	5. Assignment 4 Spanking the Monkey

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**

Lesson: Spanking the Monkey by BellaFlan

**Assignment #4: Write any kind of masturbation scene, as long as it's outside of your comfort zone. Remember to describe what your character is thinking and feeling (using as few adverbs as possible). There should be at least one reference to Cornflakes.**

Disclaimer: I don't own _Twilight_

A/N: Reading my Pre-Assignment will add a layer of understanding, but it's not necessary. This is Angela's POV

* * *

**Secrets like Pennies**

Sometimes I feel like a shadow. A single dandelion amidst a thousand yellow weeds. A piece of lint plucked off a coat and discarded with a flick.

Insignificant.

Invisible.

Unknown.

And I'm used to it now. It's fine. I've embraced my role as a piece of furniture. The girl behind the desk: as memorable as the dusty card catalogue in the corner or the generic splatter-art hanging behind my head.

Seen, but not really. Passed over. Forgotten before I'm out of sight.

Surprisingly, this comes in handy. You hear things when people don't realize you're there. Interesting things. Useful things. You hear about mid-term exams lifted from professors' cabinets. Or about the coke habit worming its way through the Dance department. Or the overweight, balding Dean's fetish for dressing in women's clothing.

I've never used this information collected like so many pennies from the sidewalk. I store it up for a rainy day. Maybe it'll come in handy. Maybe I just like knowing intimate things about people who have no desire to know me. Maybe I like having that power over them.

I don't know.

Does that make me a bad person? It's hard to believe that, but I don't have enough data to draw a comparison. I'd need friends to know what constitutes a whole person, good or bad. I'd need to be more than a shadow.

Then _she_ walks through the door, and I remember there is at least one person in this world who has seen me. One person who makes me feel—if not whole—at least, less alone.

I glance at my watch for the hundredth time in an hour, and it tells me what I already know—something held her up tonight. She's late.

She likes routine. Always in by eight. Always tucked away in the same quiet corner in the sub-basement. Sometimes I go down there and pretend to catch up on re-shelving. I'm not supposed to leave the desk, but I can easily make an excuse for being away for a few minutes. I find that spot behind the stacks that hides me from view and just watch. I like to watch her mouth as it closes around a pen while she reads. I like how her teeth gleam white when she nibbles. I like the way she huffs or laughs when she reads something upsetting or funny. She's so expressive. So vibrant. She could never be invisible.

Sometimes I'm brave enough to let her know I'm there—peeking out from behind the tired reference materials—and then I'm graced with a smile and a wave, and my heart dances in my chest. I can feel it dancing now as her eyes meet mine.

"Hey, Bella. You're getting a late start."

She smiles as she passes her student ID across the scanner and makes her way through the gate. Like she didn't even notice the quiver in my voice. She's wearing a fitted black T that reads, _Can't say it? Don't legislate it!_ and a pair of black yoga pants. I never used to notice the curve of a girl's hip, but I see hers. She's soft everywhere. Not like me—flat, straight, and thin. Built like a twelve-year-old boy. I wonder how it would feel to squeeze her hip or to have her breath hot on my neck.

She hasn't said anything yet, and I wonder if she can read my mind. _Does she know I'm thinking about touching her?_ Horror slithers through my veins, but before the panic can take hold, she rescues me.

"Yeah, I took a nap after class and slept through dinner." She hitches her backpack higher on her shoulder and brushes her hair out of her eyes. "But I have Banner in the morning, and he assigned a hundred pages this week, so I'm fucked if I don't work tonight."

I hold back the thousand-watt smile I feel brimming inside, because it would be creepy to let her know how happy this makes me. She'll be here all night. Sweet, soft, kind Bella—object of my affection. The girl who sees me.

"Good luck, then." _Don't beam. Don't scare her away._ "It's pretty dead around here, so you should have the place to yourself."

She smiles and waves goodbye, and as she heads toward the stairwell in the East Wing, I content myself with the knowledge that I'll see her later.

A few people come and go while I wait. Walking secrets. The Psych major with a supernumerary nipple, the film student whose roommate runs a weed delivery service. Pennies in the jar.

I'm only waiting long enough for Bella to get settled, calculating the exact amount of time she needs to get lost in her reading before I make my way down there. I glance distractedly through my own homework, but it's no use. I can't focus. I rifle through my bag and find a mini box of Cornflakes leftover from breakfast. The snack helps me kill another few minutes. After sufficient time has passed, I load the return cart and take the elevator down to the bottom floor, feeling my anticipation rise.

The elevator is on the opposite end of the floor from her study spot, so I don't worry about the tell-tale ding announcing my arrival. This level is carpeted, and I've chosen the cart with silent wheels. I'm stealthy as I move through the basement. Ninja Librarian. I round the corner to my destination, leaving the cart aside but taking a few books with me as props—just in case.

Before I reach my destination, I know something's off. I hear them before I see them, and even thinking that word—the plural nature of it—fills me with dread. Wet kissing noises. Dry pawing noises. Eager breathing noises. They make no sense. A discordant soundtrack here amid the dusty stacks.

I lay my books down quietly and push aside a giant tome, _Husbandry and Herd Control in the Upper Paleolithic,_ from is place on the shelf. There, through the thin break in the books, I can see it all. Mouths mashing, hands exploring, hips rubbing together.

I don't understand. It doesn't make sense.

_Why is she making out with some guy on the floor? Why would she do that here? Now?_

Maybe he's her boyfriend. Maybe they planned this.

But that doesn't ring true. Bella's never mentioned a boyfriend to me. And not twenty minutes ago, she was worried about finishing an assignment. She wouldn't have been planning some kind of library rendezvous if she was being honest about needing to work.

_Maybe she was lying._

I wipe away the thought before it's even complete. I can't believe that of her. Anyway, I know secrets. I know when someone is lying, and she wasn't.

So what does that leave? Random hook-up? They—what? Ran into each other and had the sudden urge to suck face? It's all starting to feel like a whole lot of none-of-my-business when the guy hisses and pulls away from her. She looks startled and scared, and I wonder if I should do something. But before I even think about making myself known, he's taking her shirt off and pulling the cups of her bra down, and _Holy fucking shit, what the hell is going on?_

There's a part of me that knows I will feel this later. I will dwell on the hurt. I will experience this moment as the breaking of a fragile dream. Hopes shattered under dim fluorescent light. The images that will haunt me? Her hands fisted in his hair as he takes her nipple in his mouth, her jaw hanging loose and eyes glazed as his fingers pinch and squeeze.

And while I'm aware that the pain will come, there's a greater part of me that knows this is it. This is the only chance I will ever have to see Bella's cheeks flushed like this, to see her perfect softness on display. Even if I'm not the one making her writhe and moan, it's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen, and I can't bring myself to look away.

Maybe I should feel guilty. Maybe if I weren't so used to housing other people's secrets I would.

But really, all I feel is turned on. So when she pushes him down and straddles him, I rub my legs together to relieve the mounting pressure. And when she moves aside and fumbles with the buttons on his jeans, my hand mirrors hers.

Before she can get very far, he stills her hand, and they confer quietly—words too soft for me to hear. Suddenly, I realize I know this rumpled boy on the floor. He's the film student. The one with a drug-dealing roommate. Edward. I wonder how she knows him. I wonder what they're talking about. But when he pulls her to her feet, all other thoughts fly from my mind, and I freeze, holding my breath.

_I'm trapped._

_Are they leaving? Will they see me?_

Panic rockets through me as I simultaneously search for some plausible excuse and some place to hide.

I don't even have time to zip my jeans before Edward says, "You like this chair, huh?"

_Chair? What does the chair have to do with anything?_

He walks her backwards, pushing her toward the arm of the leather wingback she usually sits in to study, and she nods with eyebrows to the sky.

"Well, I'm going to fuck you against this chair until you scream."

_Oh. Okay. Not leaving. Definitely not leaving._

He spins her around, gripping her waist and pressing on her shoulder blades until she's bent over the arm of the chair. In an instant, her pants are around her ankles, and she looks vulnerable and afraid and so fucking turned on.

My breath starts to keep pace with Bella's, and when Edward releases himself from his jeans, my eyes are just as wide as hers.

_Holy shit, he's huge!_

It's not like this is the first dick I've seen. I've known about my mother's not-so-secret stash of vintage erotica since I was twelve, and I have my own budding collection. But this is the first dick I've seen that isn't black-and-white or being attended to by a disrobed trapeze artist, and I'm feeling like they're going to be ruined for me from here on out. I mean, how can anything compare?

He follows her gaze and asks if she likes what she sees. I imagine the answer is yes, but she doesn't respond.

"Well, you don't get to have it just yet," he says as he strokes up and down a few times.

She looks devastated by this revelation, and I'm feeling a bit deflated as well.

_What the hell are we here for, then?_

The answer is surprising and swift as he pulls his hand back and lands a sharp smack on her ass.

_Oh my God._

She cries out, looking as stunned as I feel. Then a rosy bloom starts to form where his hand landed, and my legs tremble beneath me.

"That is for taking my spot," he says, just before he plants another sharp whack on her other cheek.

She cries out again; only this time there's something primal and needy in the sound. Once more the blossom forms, and I can't help but bring my fingers to the edge of my panties.

"That is for being a bitch about it," Edward says.

Then he's leaning over her and palming her breast in his hand, while the other plunges deep between her legs, and I'm lost. My hand slips underneath my panties as I try to mimic the sensation she must be feeling.

"And this is for being the hottest piece of ass I have ever seen."

I have no idea what's going on here, and I don't really need to. I just want to know what she's feeling, I want to ride this out with her—wherever it goes.

He pumps into her roughly a few times, then his hand is gone and he's lining himself up between her legs. He doesn't even take a breath before he plunges right in, and my stomach clenches in response. Her face is a mask of pleasure as she groans her approval. It's all I need to see, and my fingers work deeper inside.

There is nothing soft and sweet about their coupling. No violins, no tender caresses. But that doesn't mean it's empty. The air is full of passion and need. Full of desires fulfilled. Full of expectations met.

Edward slams against her again and again, and I feel myself rising in tandem. As I get closer to that illusive release, my breath becomes shallow, less controlled. I bite my knuckles to silence my rising whimpers, but it doesn't really matter. I don't think anyone can hear me over Bella's babbling pleas.

"Please, please, yes, God, _yes_."

Then she's falling, and he's falling, and I'm falling, and _Oh God, it feels so good!_

I grasp onto the shelf in front of me, and my vision blurs. I can't focus. I can hardly stand. I'm trembling head to toe as I fasten my jeans. I take a last look between the shelves and see Edward on the floor pulling Bella tenderly into his lap. It's my cue to leave. Really, my cue was the first moment I saw them kiss, but let's not nitpick, shall we?

As I tiptoe through the stacks, I feel a kind of peace overtake me. Perhaps I'll never be the girl who gets to hold Bella. But tonight I've done more than collect secrets. I've made my own.

And that makes me smile.


	6. Assignment 5 Realism

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**

Lesson: Realism by SexyLexiCullen

**Assignment #5: Draw from a personal sexual experience – good, bad, or ugly – and write it out. Bring yourself back to that moment and try to express your own feelings.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight

* * *

**Dirty Martini**

_This is not a date. This is not a date._

I repeat the mantra as I speed-walk from Spring Street station north along Avenue of the Americas. The lipgloss I'm reapplying belies that notion, but still, I add another coat and fluff my hair.

It never hurts to look your best.

_This is not a date._

I'm running late because . . . well, I'm always running late. I hate that feeling, and yet I can't ever seem to get out the door on time. It doesn't help that I got off one stop early in my eagerness to get to the non-date, and now I'm trudging ten blocks instead of four. Great, I'll be all sweaty and smell like subway when I get there—_late_—and I'll get that look that runs in the family. The look that says I'm not good enough. That I was never good enough.

_Stop it! Carlisle's not like that. He's so different from his parents. He's a nice guy, you know that._

I do. I mean, I _think_ so. It's not like I spent much time with him when Garrett and I were dating in high school. The older brother away at college. The elusive one. The black sheep. Still, in those moments our paths did cross, he never showed anything but disappointment in his parents' sharply-tuned judgment. He has never been anything but kind to me.

_That's why this is just two old friends who happen to live in the same city having dinner together. Not a date._

I keep the mantra up as I ring his buzzer.

"Esme?" comes the voice through the intercom. "Come on up. I'm on five."

I keep the mantra up as I hike those five flights, trying to steady my breath and wishing desperately I spent more time working out.

I keep the mantra up until the moment he opens the door, flashing a brilliant smile, looking clean and pressed—and then my brain can't hold any thought except how ragged I must look in my hippy sundress, and how this was all a horrible idea.

_What was I thinking?_

"Nice to see you. You find it okay?"

He ushers me in, and I offer an apologetic smile.

"Really sorry I'm late. The train was a little confusing."

"Not a problem. I was running behind too. You actually gave me the few extra minutes I needed to clean up when I got home."

He closes the door behind me, and I catch a whiff of his clean, fresh scent. He smells like a grown up. He _is_ a grown up. He has a real job and an apartment in SoHo. I feel entirely out of my league.

"So, this is it. Want something to drink?"

I nod gratefully and take a look around. The apartment is spare, but large for city standards. In addition to the living room and a half-kitchen, it looks like he actually has a bedroom down the hall. I think about my three roommates back in Brooklyn, and I bet if we pooled our resources, we still wouldn't be able to afford this place.

"I was just making a martini, but I've got beer too, if you'd like."

"No, that's fine."

_Sure, why not?_ I'm used to rum and cokes or two-dollar Coronas, but I can handle a martini. Big girl panties.

"You just moved a couple weeks ago, right?" He's in the kitchen, pouring gin into a shaker, and I hover on the opposite side of the counter.

"Yeah."

"Glad to be done with school?"

A blonde lock has fallen down over his face, and I have the odd urge to brush it back from his forehead. I move my focus away from the tempting lock and land on his clear blue eyes. That doesn't seem much better.

"I suppose." He lifts a brow in question. "I mean, it's great to be done studying, but I'm not really sure what to do now. I don't know what I was thinking, majoring in Fine Arts."

He chuckles, and I imagine he's thinking how silly I was for making that choice. Compared to medical school, painting must seem ridiculous.

I run my fingers along the edge of the counter and avoid his gaze. "It wasn't very practical."

"You don't regret it, do you? I was just thinking how brave it was of you to follow your passion."

I remember the conversation I had with Garrett a few years ago as I was trying to figure all this out.

"_I think you should look into advertising or interior design. That way, you can still do your art stuff, but you'd have some marketable skills when you're all done."_

It's such a unique sensation to have someone praise my decision to pursue art, I'm at a loss for words. As my pulse sounds loudly in my ears, it suddenly seems important to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

"So Garrett seems to like California."

Carlisle nods as he passes me a martini glass brimming with clear liquid. Two olives on a toothpick sway in the intimidating pool.

"Yep. Sun, sand, and girls. I'm sure he's loving it." We both hold the connection for a beat, then our expressions crack into dual smiles. "Oh, who am I kidding? I'm sure he's spending all his time with nerds."

As our laughter fills the air, I don't feel so out of place. We're not making fun of Garrett—he just landed a high-paying tech job in Silicon Valley. When you're bred into a family of scholars and doctors, being called a nerd is the highest form of praise.

"Are he and Kate still together? They gonna do the long-distance thing?"

"I think so. She has to finish another year at MIT, then he thinks she'll follow him out there."

_Good._

I don't say it, but it's easier to maintain a friendship with Garrett when he's seeing someone else. Things ended well between us when high school was over, but I like having a buffer, a sign that we're both clear on exactly where we stand.

Carlisle raises his glass and I meet his, sloshing a bit as we clink.

"Cheers."

I take a gulp and immediately regret it, choking on the fire blazing down my throat. It tastes like turpentine.

"Oh, God. How do you drink this?"

He smiles with his whole body and takes the drink from my hand.

"Want something a little less—"

"Gross? Yes, please."

He turns to the fridge and returns with a beer in a fancy bottle. I eye him skeptically.

"Leffe? Is this going to make my mouth burn?"

"It's good. You'll like it."

He's holding both our martinis now, and I wonder if he's going to finish them by himself. I suppose I should try to keep up. I take a sip, testing the flavor, and he's right. It's nice. Nicer than the swill I'm used to. I take a big swig and smile. Date or not, I think this is going to be a good night.

* * *

"Then we check it in the morning, and there's a gigantic 'FUCK' bleached into the hallway rug! Maggie had to work this whole thing out with the administration so she wouldn't get charged for replacing it. We spent weeks mixing Rit dye the exact color of the carpet to try to patch over it."

We're a giggling, sloppy mess. The coffee table is littered with beer bottles and empty martini glasses. Carlisle had this whole gourmet meal planned out, but somehow we ended up just munching on french bread and cheese while we talked.

He gets up from the couch and stumbles over to the light switch on the wall. I can't help but notice how nice his ass looks in those jeans. He flips the switch off, leaving the room bathed in dim, buttery-soft light from a corner lamp.

"Too bright," he says by way of explanation, and I nod in return.

He's chuckling as he heads into the kitchen to get us another round.

"What?" I ask.

"Hmm?" The fridge is open, and he's staring into it with glazed eyes, as though he's forgotten why he's there.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about the first time we met."

"Oh yeah?"

I know exactly what he's talking about, but I have a hard time believing he remembers it the way I do. He was such an intimidating figure—nothing like he is now, loose-limbed, with his shirt sleeves rolled and rumpled, his eyes twinkling in mirth. Garrett had been talking about his big brother for months. Building up his hero to extraordinary heights. By the time I met Carlisle—home from college for winter break—he was a looming figure in my mind. The smartest, funniest, coolest guy that had ever lived. And when I was met with his quiet brand of aloofness—a blonde James Dean—I believed the myth.

"Do you remember that dinner?"

"Oh yeah." I cringe at the memory. "Your mom was in her Julia Childs phase and attempted Coq Au Vin. She didn't realize I'd just given up meat. I tried to hide the chicken under my mashed potatoes so I wouldn't offend her."

"_That's_ what you were doing?"

He plops down on the couch next to me and hands me another beer.

"What did you think I was doing?" We clink bottles and take a synchronized swig, then set them down.

"I thought you were making art. It looked like a sculpture, the way your broccoli fanned out around the chicken. The pile of potatoes towering above. I thought you were being avant-garde."

I giggle and slump toward him. "No, I was being a freak, like usual. I'm sure your mother just _loved_ that."

"You weren't a freak." His expression is suddenly serious. He actually looks kind of sober. "You were amazing. I always wondered how Garrett got so lucky."

And there it is. The words that change everything . . . and nothing at all. Words that only tell me what I cannot have. Because there's something here—I can feel it. I know he does. But our past is an insurmountable wall. I can't wipe away my history with Garrett. I can't pretend he doesn't matter. He does. He's here, now, watching as Carlisle and I creep closer together on the couch.

"I thought he was a huge idiot for letting you go."

My breath is shallow and unsteady, and I can't seem to take my eyes off his lips. _What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?_

"I thought—I _think . . ._ you're extraordinary."

"Carlisle. . ." I hate the way he flinches when I say his name—like he's bracing for a slap. But I have to say this. "What about Garrett?"

His expression is wracked with pain—and indecision. "I don't want to hurt my brother."

"I don't either."

It's strange that we're talking about this so openly, that we both seem to understand what's happening here. Then again, it's not strange at all. We've been speaking the same language all night. Like we walked right into the middle of a conversation we'd never started. Talking to him—being with him—is effortless.

He leans in closer, and his scent is all around. The clean, masculine smell from before, tempered now by spirits and beer. I feel like all of my senses are on high-alert, primed and ready for . . . _something_.

"We should be rational about this. We shouldn't do something we'll regret." Even as he voices his concern, his body is saying something else, moving closer by millimeters.

"Something we'll regret. . ." I mimic, unable to wade through the fog in my mind.

Then his hand is on my neck, and his mouth is crashing down on mine, and nothing else matters. It feels right. More right than any kiss ever has. I pull him on top of me, and my body sighs where we connect—like I can finally exhale after years of holding my breath.

I feel the rough denim of his pants against my bare legs. I feel the crisp cotton of his shirt under my fingers. I feel his gentle hands exploring me eagerly. All good, all perfect.

Then reality bares it claws, and my denial is scratched away.

"Wait." I push his face away, but he's undeterred. He kisses along my neck, drawing unwanted shivers down my spine. "Carlisle, wait. You said—"

"Forget what I said. Just feel. Doesn't this feel right?"

"Yes, but—"

"No, Esme." He meets my eyes at last, and there's a determination there I've never seen before. "Nobody else is here. It's just you and me. This is just us."

I want to believe him. I want to pretend nothing else matters. Not his brother, not his parents, not the age difference, or our tangled past. I want that so badly. He's watching me with his perfect blue—waiting for my answer—and I realize that I can. I can choose this. I can choose him. Over guilt. Over propriety. I can choose us.

So I do.

"Take me to your room."

He flips off the couch and pulls me with him, tripping out of the living room while trying to keep hold of me. I laugh as he pauses in the hallway, pressing my back to the wall, hitching my leg around his hips.

"You're so beautiful. So beautiful."

I gasp as he grinds against me, hands roaming, fingers teasing. His mouth is hot against mine, and I feel like I could swallow him whole—consume every bit of him. I tug on his lip with my teeth, and he groans.

"Too many clothes," he whispers as my dress is lifted over my head.

If there are any nagging doubts left, I've pushed them way, way down. Down into a cellar so dark and deep, I don't have to worry about them tonight. He's right. This feels so right.

He's feverish as he draws my supporting leg up and around him. We're balanced against the wall, his hips pressed into me and hands gripping my ass. I love the connection. I love the wild, raw neediness of it all. But it's also just kind of awkward and hard to keep myself aloft, and as I slip down, we snicker.

"Guess the hallway's out," I tease.

He firms his grip and pulls me close, carrying me into his room. I bang my elbow on the doorjamb, and he loses his balance at the end, collapsing with me on the bed.

"Ow!" My cry is punctuated with a laugh.

"I'm sorry. I think I might have had a little bit much to drink."

"Me too."

His eyes are shining bright, even here in the dark room, as his gaze tracks over me. When I realize how little I'm wearing, I feel myself flush head to toe. I reach out to him.

"Can we take some of this off, please?"

My hands are on the buttons of his shirt, but he pulls away, slipping the whole thing over his head. His undershirt follows quickly, and I scoot back on the bed, enjoying the view. As he goes to unbutton his jeans, he pauses, suddenly uncertain.

"Esme. . . I'm sorry. I feel like an ass. We don't have to—"

"No. I want to." I can feel a giant beacon above my head. Red letters flashing _SLUT_ over and over again. But I don't care. "I really want to."

As his pants fall to the floor, I realize this is it. This is going to happen. I'm doing this with Carlisle Cullen—whose name is still so fresh to me, it feels strange on my tongue. We're doing what Garrett and I never did, and I wince at the betrayal. Not a betrayal to Garrett. A betrayal to Carlisle, for thinking his brother's name. He doesn't belong here. He has no place here.

I open my arms wide and try to banish the thoughts from my rebellious mind. When his skin is against mine and our mouths find each other, everything else vanishes. I do as he said and just feel.

I feel his touch—feather-soft as he brushes his fingers over my chest. I feel his hips—pressed firmly against me, two insignificant bits of fabric separating us. I feel his mouth—playful and eager, confident and exploring. I feel him—so invested, so present.

Every moment moves us forward, closer to connection, closer to release.

My bra disappears, and then our underwear. I feel outside of myself as I touch him, as his hands and mouth roam. We're so entwined that when the moment finally comes, when he pushes into me and I sigh my relief, it doesn't feel like some startling revelation—it feels like an extension of what's come before. It's right. It's perfect.

We move together eagerly, pushing and pulling, stoking the fire. We grunt and groan, the alcohol loosening our tongues and spurring the slap and grind of our bodies. I feel fuzzy but happy. Surprised by my unexpected boldness—thrilled with his.

When his rhythm begins to falter and his thrusts become more punishing, I grip him tightly and rise to meet him. I want to feel his release. I want to see his face as he gives himself to me.

"Esme. . ." he cries. A plea. A warning.

I can't form words, so I respond with a keening sigh, and I hold him tighter.

Then he's falling over the edge. He's making that beautiful sound because of me. His face is framed in a mask of pleasure because of what I've done—and I'm so happy.

He collapses against me, a sweaty mess of limbs, and I squeeze him hard. There's an unsatisfied ache swirling inside, but I don't mind. We'll get there eventually. Maybe tonight. Maybe in the morning. Right now, I just want to breathe him in and hold him close.

Carlisle. A myth turned man. A light shining inside of me.

I smile against his chest as he holds me tight and rolls us over. I think I was right all along. This wasn't a date. It was the beginning of forever.


	7. Assignment 6 Dirty Talk

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**

Lesson: Dirty Talk by IReen H

**Assignment #6: You can write your phone-sex scene in whatever fashion you like. It can be squicky or silly or sexy. Just let your words and your characters set the mood. It can be purple or utilitarian, or poetic. Write what you are comfortable writing. But remember your goal.**

**Dialogue and just enough description to support it.**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Twilight

**Thank you:** I have been remiss. **IReen H** pre-read my previous two chapters, and I did not properly thank her. After this brilliant, inspiring lesson, I owe her triple.

Thank you to all of the other girls of the DTCPS for reading, sharing, and all the love: **BelieveItOrNott**, **DragonFly336**, **DreamingInNorweign**, and **Thimbles**

**Long Distance**

"Jazz? What—what's wrong?"

I've woken him up. The deep gravel in his voice would tell me as much even if I didn't know how late it was for him. The phone is cradled between my shoulder and ear as I take another sip of Dad's Lagavulin single malt. I don't bother to hide my grimace as it eases its way down my throat. Scotch wouldn't usually be my first choice, but it was either that or Mom's box-o-wine—and I'm not drinking Chardonnay alone on Christmas Eve.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'alright. Are you okay?"

He yawns, and I hear him shift. I can almost see him turning over, pulling the covers across his shoulder as he burrows deeper into the bed. If I were there with him, he'd have stollen my half of the blanket—like he does every night—and I'd be nuzzling his neck as I wrestled it back.

"I was just missing you." I swirl the tumbler, watching ice cubes slowly dissolve into the amber liquid. "I know we talked this afternoon, I just—well. . . you know how I am when I'm alone."

"Why are you alone? Where are your mom and dad?"

"Playing a gig in the valley. Some producer's celebrating his fourth marriage, and he wanted a couple of Grammy winners to impress the guest list."

Their kitschy tune from the '70s, _Love Triangle_, would never be considered my parents' defining opus, but they did get a shiny gold paperweight out of it.

"Really? They do weddings?"

"When the price is right. They're gearing up for their European tour this summer, so they're not terribly picky about the shit they take."

"But on Christmas Eve?"

I sigh and shrug, certain he knows what I'm thinking, even through my silence. As much as I like to talk, Edward and I don't need a lot of words to connect.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'd bring you hot cocoa and kiss you under the mistletoe, if I could."

God, I'd love that. I envy his cozy New England Christmas. Icicles hanging from Victorian roofs, crackling fires and spiked eggnog, scarves sloughing snowflakes as they're pulled from shivering necks. It's nothing like this pseudo-holiday I'm currently entrenched in. I grew up in L.A., and I appreciate the familiarity of our Venice Beach home, but it'd be nice—just once—to have a white Christmas.

Maybe next year.

Maybe then, Edward will invite me to his place for winter break.

"Think we could make it a naked kiss in front of the fireplace?" I tease. "As long as you're offering?"

I smile as laughter trips out of him. His sluggish tone is gone, and I feel a little bad for keeping him awake.

"We don't have a fireplace."

"What? How can you live in Boston and not have a fireplace?"

"We're in Cambridge, not Boston—there's a fine distinction. And my parents opted for the bar instead."

"Oh, I see now. Harvard intelligentsia toasting to Kafka or Bukowski while junior draws in the corner."

"Change that to Kierkegaard or Heidegger, and you'd have it about right."

I smile to myself, picturing that kiss in front of the fireplace—imagined or not—and feel my cock stir at the thought.

"But if we had a fireplace," he says, reading my mind, "I'd definitely agree to the request."

I suddenly feel a lot warmer, and I don't think it's because of the scotch.

"Hey, E?"

"Yeah?"

"I really wish you were here."

He huffs—a regretful sound, a longing sound.

"Me too."

Outside, the lights on the neighbor's house blink, casting festive colors across my room in fits and spurts. It looks like a holiday crime scene.

"At dinner tonight, Dad toasted my first semester at college, and all I could think about was how you look first thing in the morning. He's going on and on about how much I've come out of my shell, and I'm just picturing your bare chest. It got so bad, had to cover my lap with my napkin."

I laugh and imagine Edward's embarrassed grimace, knowing it was the compliment more than the untimely hard on that would have brought a flush to his face.

"Don't laugh. You got an honorable mention at dinner, too."

"I did?" I choke down another sip of scotch as I process this tidbit.

"Yeah. After Dad finished, Mom made a point of toasting, quote, _Edward's boyfriend, Jasper_. Based on the gleam in her eye, you're golden. She's already in love with you."

"I'm not surprised. I'm awesome," I joke. "Wait 'til she hears my mad skills on the guitar."

I like thinking about meeting his folks.

"Hey, Jazz?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we stop talking about my mom?"

I set the tumbler down on my nightstand and run a hand over my belly. There are a number of reasons Edward might be tired of talking about his parents, but I'm pretty sure I've got it narrowed down to one.

"What do you want to talk about, instead?" I shift on top of the covers, desperate for space inside my pants.

"What?"

"What do you want to talk about?" My voice has lost its playful tenor. It rumbles out of me, the heavy tones vibrating deep in my belly. "I mean, we could talk about how much I want to see what your face looks like first thing on Christmas morning. Or we could talk about how my present for you isn't really family-appropriate."

He laughs, but refrains from asking what I got him.

"Or . . . we could talk about how my hands are itching to touch you right now . . . how empty they feel without you here."

"_Jasper_," he groans across the line.

"Edward."

"I want . . . I need . . ."

For a moment, I think he's going to go along with my little game. My hand saunters south as I imagine what it is he wants. What he needs. Then he exclaims his frustration, and I sigh.

"God! I'm not like you, Jay. I'm not good at this stuff."

My focus is undeterred. I've gone past the point of no return here. This is gonna end with or without him, and I'd prefer with.

"You're good at everything you put your mind to."

"Not with words. I don't have the words, baby."

I can't take the building pressure any longer. I tug at the buttons on my jeans, pulling them open. I breathe my relief when I've shimmied my pants all the way down my legs, and the barrier is gone. My hand strokes leisurely.

"Can you help me paint a picture here? Are you still in bed?"

"Yes," he breathes. "I'm under the covers, but I'm starting to feel a little hot." I hear rustling noise and imagine him flipping the covers off. "There. That's better."

"I'm picturing you the way you sleep at home. Is that right?"

"Yeah." His voice is low in his throat. Rough.

"Me too."

"Ugh."

I smile as his breathing speeds the slightest bit.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes," he whispers. Embarrassment is colored by something else now. Need. Desire.

My strokes increase in response, and I feel a tightening in my thighs. In my balls.

"Will you tell me what you're thinking about?"

"_Jazz_ . . ."

"Please? I wanna hear it. I wanna know."

He pauses for a long time, and I think he won't answer me. He's breathing harder now, a heavy rhythm that matches my own. Then his stuttered reply comes slowly, parsed out in tantalizing bits.

"I—I'm . . . I'm imagining . . . your mouth . . . on me."

_Oh fuck._

The noise tugged out of me is a strange combination of a groan, an exclamation, and a plea. The neighbor's lights flash in time with my pumping hand. I think he's going to stop there, but he goes on.

"You're watching me . . . smiling around me . . . and—_oh God!_"

I love the idea of putting my mouth on him. More than that, though, I love that he's brave enough to say it. I know how difficult this is for him, but he's trying. For me. For us.

"Keep going," I huff through heavy breaths. "My mouth is on you. My hands."

"_Jazz_ . . ." he groans. "So good. God, you always feel so . . . _hnf_ . . . good."

The wet, slapping noise on the other end of the line flies straight to my groin, an electric pulse that reaches every nerve-ending in my body—scalp to toes, I'm humming for him.

I'm having a hard time talking now, but I want to hear more. I'm addicted to his words.

"What else? Tell me more . . . _please_."

"Jay, I can't. _Fuck!_ I—" He struggles, panting, and my grip tightens. I'm close. So fucking close. "Your mouth is just . . . so wet, so warm."

I can see him in his darkened room—working himself over and thinking of me. And with that I'm lost. Everything disappears but the sound of Edward's rasping breath in my ear and the feel of my hand pumping my release, hard and fast.

"Unnngghh . . ."

My eyes slam shut, phantom Christmas lights flashing behind closed lids. Slowly, Edward's voice returns to me though the glorious fog. He's still on the edge, struggling to speak—his voice rough.

"Jay, did you?" He huffs a few uneven breaths. "I'm gonna—_OH_ _FUCK_!"

Then he's groaning, and his voice is far away, as though he dropped the phone. I listen hard, eager for the familiarity of his sounds, his cries. My chest rises and falls heavily while he gathers himself. After a minute, there's rustling on the line, and my beautiful boy is back.

"E? Edward? You okay?"

I can hear the smile in his slurred voice.

"Hmmm . . . very okay."

I roll over to the nightstand and grab a tissue to clean up a bit. I finish off the scotch and burrow down into bed, feeling loose and tired.

"Thank you for indulging me."

"Um-hmm—" _Yawn_. "—anytime."

"I should let you sleep. Big day tomorrow."

He mumbles something that sounds a lot like, "I love you, Jazz."

"I love you, too."

My eyes catch the clock on my nightstand, red digits reading early hours instead of late.

"Hey, baby?"

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."


	8. Assignment 7 Teen Sex God

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012  
Lesson:** Where Were These Teenage Sex Gods When I Was in High School by Coldplaywhore

**Assignment #7:** Write a sex scene featuring a realistic portrayal of teens doing it, getting it on, doing the horizontal mambo etc… Awkwardness, fumbling, and the overwhelming need to satisfy your partner because you want them to enjoy it – those could all be included. No gymnastics, graphic dirty talk or massive peens. Aim for a little realism, and if you need to, reflect on your own first time because I doubt it was the epic sex-fest we often read in fan fiction.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight

**A/N:** In which the author's note is longer than the actual fic . . . This is my first drabble. I kept to 100 words, and boy those 100 went fast. I'm not in love with this piece, but I do think it captures the spirit of realistic teen sex (which is probably why I don't care for it - LOL!). Imagine who you want, but I see James and Victoria.

**Thank you** to all the girls of the **DTCPS** for reading, sharing, and all the love: **IReenH**, **BelieveItOrNott**, **DragonFly336**, **DreamingInNorweigen**, and **Thimbles**

* * *

**Back Stage**

"Here?"

_Snicker_.

"Sure."

"Won't we get caught?"

"Everyone is on stage. Be quiet and we'll be fine."

The prop room is dark, but anyone could walk in. He takes her top off, and she revels in the feeling of being bad.

He eases her down onto soft blue mats. Costume racks form a cage around.

Panties are gone.

He presses in. She sighs.

Something about him. Charisma. Danger. He's a thrumming pulse inside her veins.

Faster and higher—she teeters precariously.

So close.

_So close_. . .

He stills and collapses.

He's heavy on top.

_Is that all?_ she wonders.

.

.

.

_Guess so._


	9. Assignment 8 Unresolved Sexual Tension

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**

**Lesson:** Unresolved Sexual Tension by YellowBella (TeamSmella23 and Yellow Glue)

**Assignment #8:** This may be different than what you're used to, but light on the sex this week. No sealing the deal, no rounding home, no penetration (not completely, anyway.) Give us your best Unresolved Sexual Tension. Choose one of the pointers YellowGlue and I gave you and write a one shot where chemistry and physical attraction win. Make us want it. Make us pull our hair out. Make our cheeks warm and girl parts tingle. Tease us! Frustrate us! You can do it. Now go.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight

**Thank you** to **DreamingInNorweigen** for pre-reading and all the girls of the **DTCPS** for the love: **Ajapersuasia**, **BelieveItOrNott**, **DragonFly336**, and **Thimbles**

* * *

**Strangers on a Train**

Springtime in Paris is completely misleading. Sure, the smell of baked goods wafting from quaint markets is drool-inducing, and the pretty Parisian girls show just enough leg to inspire curiosity without being vulgar. But the Metro stinks like piss the same as any city, and the Seine is a muddy mess in harsh daylight. I'm out of practice on the romance front, anyhow. I didn't exactly court Vicky as much as follow her into the girls lavatory at school where she hoovered my dick until I saw stars. I don't think she'd appreciate the city of love. Vegas, maybe. Sin city. Much more her speed.

Anyway, she's cruising Greece with the Bitch Brigade for spring break, so I don't need to worry about romancing—or fucking—anyone right now.

I'm too focused on navigating Gare du Nord to think about my pseudo girlfriend, or the way she's been looking at James lately, or the fact that drama school might have been a huge mistake. No, right now I just want to get to my train so I can get out of this bruised flower of a city.

My overstuffed backpack is an anchor as I make my way through the crowd, and sweat is creeping down my spine.

_Great. I have more than thirteen hours to go, and I already want a shower._

I know I have a bad attitude about it all, and I'm trying to enjoy this. But everything's in fucking French, and nobody believes in deodorant, and the squeal of braking trains is making my head ache, and—

_Fuck!_

I feel like a caged tiger with nowhere to stick my claws.

_Get a grip, Riley._

_Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up._

My inner asshole is momentarily tamed when I settle into a seat and feel the cool air swirl around me.

_Thank God for air conditioning._

The train is filling up, and I'm glad I snagged one of the seats with a table. I guess the afternoon train to Frankfurt is popular. I'll be switching there to head to Prague, but that's not for another seven hours, so I settle in with my iPad and catch up on Twitter.

Vicky's status reads: _Cocktails on the deck! I love Greece already!_

I return: _pretty_vicky69 Have one for me. I haven't located the drinking car yet. Wonder if Eurorail offers table service._

Everyone stateside is just waking up, and most of the kids from school are still in-transit from London, so things are pretty quiet. After a few minutes, Vicky hasn't responded, so I close Twitter down and pull up my latest _Song of Ice and Fire_. I get lost in the book and barely notice when the train starts rocking on the tracks or another body joins me across the table.

I carry on like that for who knows how long. Daenerys just kicked some Qarth warlock ass and is storming gangster-style out of the House of Undying with her dragons, when I hear a polite, "Excuse me," from from my seat mate.

At first, I think Vicky has somehow snuck onto the train. My heart stutters to think she'd surprise me this way—skip her beach cruise to go to some dusty Medieval city with me. But of course, it's not Vicky. The curly red hair threw me off. This girl's untamed halo is similar, but that's where the resemblance ends. She has large green eyes—not icy blue—and her delicate, heart-shaped face is framed in a wild array the rich color of pomegranate seeds—not brash red of fire engines. She's petite, tiny even, while Vicky is tall and dust-flap vixen curvy. As she stands, I can't help but see a woodland sprite in her moss-colored top and flowing brown skirt. I pull my gaze from her delicate figure and regain my voice.

"Yes?"

"I dinna mean to interrupt, but I have to go to the loo, and I was hoping you could look after my bag."

Her Irish brogue is sweet and lilting, and I smile at the familiar sound of English in my ears. She's motioning to an overstuffed pack on her seat, and I nod.

"Sure."

"Ta," she says and sashays toward the back of the car.

By the time she returns, I've lost focus on the book and set my iPad down to see the city disappear into rolling countryside. I feel lighter watching the scattered farms and green vineyards pass by. This is good. This is what I needed—a break from the stress of city life. A respite from the judgement of professors and the exhausting antics of my attention-seeking classmates.

After seven months in London, I'm aching for home. What France lacks in forests, it certainly makes up for in green, and I feel closer to Washington than I have in ages.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

My companion has followed my gaze and is staring out the window with the same longing I feel simmering under my skin. I smile and nod, glad for something pretty to look at during the long trek.

"I dinna think I'd miss home so much, but I guess me mum was right."

"Are you from Ireland?"

I don't usually feel the urge to make friends with strangers, but there's an inviting peace to the girl that makes me feel warm. It's funny how her thoughts seem to be aligned with mine.

"County Cork. Have you been?"

"No, I haven't made my way over there yet. I'm in school in London. Not much time to travel."

"Do you like it?"

"What, London? Yeah, it's great."

The lie sits uneasily on my tongue, but I don't feel like going into my woes with some stranger on a train.

"Do you fib a lot, or do you just not feel like talking about it?"

_What?_

This easy conversation has taken a turn for the surreal, and I'm not sure I like it.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you say 'London' like you've got stones in your mouth, so I was just wondering why you'd pretend all's grand." I feel my brows crease, and she backtracks. "I'm sorry. None of my business."

I'm not sure how to respond, so I turn my gaze back to the window. We're both silent as the conductor walks down the line taking tickets.

As verdant hills roll past, I can't get this boiling unease out of my stomach, and I feel the need to clarify.

"I like London. It's actually pretty fantastic. I'm just a little tired of everything that comes with it."

She smiles in sympathy.

"I know the feeling."

"Are you in school?"

"Nah. Mum and Da own a pub in town, and I work behind the bar. Da didn't want me to go away, but I needed a break, you know? See some of the world."

"How long have you been traveling?"

"Few weeks. Saw London and Amsterdam. A few days in Paris, and I'm on my way to Frankfurt now."

She licks her lips and shifts in her seat—an innocent gesture, but I can't help but feel my cock stir. I remind myself of my girlfriend and refocus.

I don't want this to get awkward. I like talking to someone about something besides _motivation_ or _my process_. I love theatre, but actors are a neurotic, self-centered bunch. It's exhausting spending my days stroking egos.

"So, where are you from?"

"Pacific Northwest. Seattle area." I'm sure she's never heard of Forks, so I don't bother getting more specific than that.

"I'd love to go to The States sometime. I want to see New York. And the Grand Canyon."

I laugh at her childlike enthusiasm. She's so unassuming. I bet she has no idea how sexy she is.

"You know they're pretty far apart, right? Like the distance from here to Poland."

She purses her lips with a kittenish ferocity. I've pissed her off.

"I know that. I'm not stupid just because I didn't go to university."

Her anger jolts straight to my groin. It's confusing, feeling turned on and guilty all at once. I want to wipe that scowl from her face. I'm just not sure _how_ I want to do it.

"I didn't mean it that way. It's just that Europe is all scrunched together, and sometimes people don't realize how big the US is. I don't think you're stupid."

She looks contrite, and I suddenly realize how invested I am in making this girl smile. I don't like it. I need some air.

"I'm gonna go search for the dining car," I say, sliding out of my seat. "You want a drink or something?"

She nods with a tight smile.

"Sure. I'll take a Guinness if you can find one."

"So we're going with the stereotype, are we?" I can't resist teasing her. "Want me to bring you back a green hat and some clovers, too?"

She laughs, and it's like warm honey in my veins.

"It's a good beer! Mother's milk."

I smile at the absurd phrase.

"I'm Riley, by the way."

"Maggie. Nice to meet ya."

My grin is Cheshire Cat wide as I make my way through the cars. I check my phone for a response from Vicky while I wait in line at the bar, but she hasn't gotten back yet. When I see she's posted a new picture of Jane and Bree taking shots, I feel an annoying little pang but shake it off. It's fine. Vicky's not the lovey-dovey type. I'm sure she just wants to have fun with the girls.

I jot off a quick note to her before stepping up and placing my order.

_Found the beer! Hope you're having fun, pretty_vicky69. Enjoy Greece._

—::—

"It's like they can't go two minutes without some affirmation of their talent, you know? Everyone is always _on_. Take a break! You don't have to be a stand up comic or Lady MacBeth-tragic every fucking moment."

"So you like your mates, then?"

She laughs and takes another swig of beer. The pint glasses are piling up, and I feel loose and happy. Maggie is easy to talk to, and I'm kind of addicted to her accent. I like the way everything she says tilts up at the end, as though it were a question. Outside, the countryside is dark, little points of light flashing momentarily as we pass scattered houses and towns.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to dump all this on you."

She shakes her head and eases back, lifting her feet under the table and placing them on the seat next to me. Her toes peek out of leather sandals, and I notice the nails are painted deep red—wine-colored—like her hair. She has cute toes. I widen my legs, sensing the heat of her calf next to my knee.

"I dinna mind. Feels good to vent, doesn't it?" Her eyes are drowsy, and her words are soft and slurred. "Do you think you'll stick with it?"

"What? Acting?" I tip the glass to my mouth and her eyes follow. "I don't know. I used to love it, but lately, it feels more like work than fun."

She yawns, and I drop my gaze to my hands. My pants feel too tight. I've been at half-mast the whole trip, but the way her mouth forms that perfect, obscene O just pushed me over to full.

"Well, that's a very American thing to say."

"What is?"

"That work feels like work."

I laugh at the dig, and nod my head.

"Yes, yes, I'm a spoiled, uncultured American brat." Somehow, I'm looking at her mouth again, all perfect and plump and pink, like it's been stained by cherries. _Stop it!_ I find her eyes and continue. "I just thought there would be more, you know? I thought I would enjoy it. But I feel a little trapped."

She huffs through her nose, a sound of camaraderie, and I kick myself for being an insensitive prat. This girl has been working in her parents' pub since she was sixteen. She hasn't had half the opportunities I have, and here I am bitching about my stupid classmates and lack of direction.

"I was thinking I might like to write."

I don't know where the words come from. They fly from my mouth before I have a chance to filter them. This is a secret dream. One I don't share with anyone.

I hold my breath, waiting for her response. For some reason I want her to like the idea. I want her to tell me I'm not an idiot. Her eyes are bright—even under drowsy lids—sparkling like emeralds.

"I think it suits you. You're very observant. And from what I can tell, the solitary life would be a good fit."

We both laugh, and I feel myself relax. I like the way she teases me. I like how her eyes roam over me when she thinks I'm not looking. She taps me playfully on the thigh with her foot, and I move my leg closer to her. I want to put my hand on her ankle. I want to slide it up her leg and dip under her skirt. Instead, I busy my hands by taking a drink.

"What would you do, if you weren't behind the bar all the time?"

She gets lost in some faraway place, and a smile crinkles the corner of her mouth.

"I'd like to teach. I'm pretty good with kids, and it seems like a worthwhile thing to do."

"You should do it." I want her to be happy. I don't like the idea of her growing old and jaded in some beer-soaked pub.

She mashes her lips together, and her curls bounce as she shakes her head.

"Nah. It's just a silly idea. I probably wouldn't be any good at it anyway." She turns the empty glass in her hands. "And Mum and Da need me too much."

I hate that resigned look on her face. Like the spark that's been so present this whole evening has been stamped out. I turn her words back on her.

"Who's lying now?"

Her face falls, and I swear I see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. I'm an asshole.

"I dinna mean to be rude, Riley, but a few beers on a train doesn't make you an expert on my life."

She's closed down, looking away, and I feel a shattering sense of loss.

"Hey, wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" I'm fumbling for words and leaning across the table to close the sudden divide. "I just think you're kind of amazing, and I know you could do anything you wanted to."

A beautiful flush pinks her cheeks, and I track her eyes to where my hand is now covering hers. I know I should let go. _I know_. But now that I've finally touched her, now that I can feel the soft warmth I've been imaging for hours, I can't bring myself to pull away.

Neither of us is talking. We're both just staring at our suddenly connected hands, frozen by the unexpected intimacy. Somewhere inside I register I should feel guilty or embarrassed, but I feel neither. I just feel good. There's a current traveling up my arm. It's flowing from where we connect and skimming along just under my skin through my entire frame. It's warm and comforting and so, so right. It feels like home.

The moment stretches on, pulling taut on my fragile reserve until I think I might climb over the table and kiss her, or run from this car and never look back. And I don't want to run away.

"Frankfurt nächste Station!"

The announcement is jarring in that particular German way, and we jump apart, startled.

She meets my astonished gaze as the meaning of the words sinks in. We've been talking for nearly six hours. It wasn't long enough. Not by far. City lights are flashing past, and we have to say goodbye soon, and I'm not ready. I'm not ready to let her go.

My stomach twists and turns as I fight for some way to keep this going, to keep her with me.

"Well. That's us, isn't it?" Her voice is gravelly and sad. It matches the lump in my throat.

As the train pulls to a stop, we gather our bags and disembark. Frankfurt is chilly, and she shivers under the yellow platform lamp.

"Do you have a coat? It's late. Do you know where you're going?"

"Yeah, there's a taxi stand outside. My hostel's not far."

"Are you sure?" I only have ten minutes to make my connection, but maybe—

"It was really nice to meet you, Riley. Good luck with school and everything."

She takes my hand in an awkward shake and then stops, stepping a bit closer.

"Promise me you'll try your hand at writing, okay?"

I nod stupidly, my voice gone.

"Bye."

She pecks my cheek. As she's walking away, I come to, and I stop her with a shout.

"Wait!" She turns, expectant, full of life. "Promise me you'll at least think about going to school. Find a way. Those kids will be missing out if you don't."

She smiles and nods, turning away at last. I watch until her head disappears down the stairs, and even then I can't look away. But she doesn't return, and the minutes are ticking on. I reluctantly search for a train schedule and find one a few paces away. I'm on the right track for my connection to Prague, and I wait while other passengers gather on the platform with me.

After a minute, I remember I haven't checked in with Vicky in hours, and she's probably wondering what I'm up to. I feel a tinge of guilt for having let her slip so thoroughly from my mind, but it vanishes when I see my empty inbox. I check her page. She's been busy posting pictures and anecdotes about her travels.

I feel sick. And lonely.

The train arrives. My feet move me onboard, and there's nothing to do but find my cabin and try to burn the memory of Maggie's kiss into my brain. It's enough. It has to be.

As the train pulls away from the station, I have the horrible realization that I don't even know her last name. I have no way to get in touch with her. I jump up, rushing to the door, wanting to stop the train or hop off or _something_. But I'm startled by a knock, and I halt in my tracks. There's a halo of red through the window of the door, and it's her. It's fucking _her._

I open the door and usher her in. She's breathless and flushed and looking scared.

"I'm sorry, this is crazy, but I just couldn't say goodbye yet. Is that completely ridiculous?"

"No, it's perfect."

"I have this Eurorail pass, and I can go anywhere. Prague sounds nice, you know?"

Then she's giggling like mad, and my hands are shaking as I join her.

_Yeah, it sounds really nice_.

I take her bag from her shoulders and set it on the top bunk, next to mine.

"You want to hang out together? Explore the city?"

Her eyes are bright, sparkling.

"I'd love to."

—::—

There's someone warm and soft in my arms, and I smile at the familiar tangle of curly hair against my face. She smells good, like sunflowers and rainy days. I flatten my hand on her stomach and press against her from behind, attempting to relieve some of the ache between my legs. She curves into me perfectly. It's like we were made to fit. Vicky's never felt like this before—she's so tall, I always have to maneuver a bit to get us into just the right position.

My eyes fly open as realization hits.

_Oh fuck. Maggie. MAGGIE. Not Vicky._

I pull back in a panic and do a once over to make sure we're both fully dressed. She's slides back into me and sighs. There's no space on this tiny sleeper bunk, and I'm pressed against the wall. Trapped.

_Oh, God. This isn't right. This isn't right. What the hell happened?_

I don't push her away, because I'm afraid to startle her. As long as she's sleeping, I have some time to figure out how we got here.

My head is fuzzy, and I feel the drag of too much alcohol in my system. Outside is dark. It's still the middle of the night. We arrive in Prague at six a.m. so we couldn't have been out for too long. I think back and remember hitting the dining car for one last round. We were sleepy and more than tipsy by the end of it, and I remember resting my eyes for just a second.

_Okay, this is still okay. I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't cheated on my girlfriend._

_Yeah, you prick. You're just grinding on some other girl in a bed on a train. I'm sure she'll be totally fine with that._

_Fuck!_

I feel even worse as I realize I still haven't told Maggie about Vicky. It's not that I was hiding it exactly. It just never came up.

_Convenient, asshole._

Maggie shifts against me and moans. The problem in my pants isn't going anywhere, and it's starting to throb painfully. She's rubbing her thighs together, and the residual friction is tinder to my flame. I grip my thigh in an effort to keep from squeezing the subtle rise of her hip, but that does nothing to reduce the hypnotic effect of her earthy, feminine scent on my system. I feel like I'm wading through a cloud of desire. Helpless. Hopeless.

_You cannot do this. You can't. Get it together and wake her up._

But I don't wake her up. She feels too good—the soft length of her undulating against me—and I know I have to tell her about Vicky now. That thought runs like icy water down my spine, and my body recoils from the image of her disappointment. I don't want to see her look at me that way. Like I've mislead her. Like I lied.

My arm is at an odd angle under my head, and I shift to relieve the ache. My fingers brush against something small and hard, and I lift it up, discovering my phone.

_Great. Maybe I can call for help. There's gotta be some kind of team that can help a moron get out of an impossible situation like this._

_Idiot Rescue Squad. Temporary Insanity Division._

I carefully switch the phone to my free hand, afraid Vicky tried to get in touch and couldn't reach me. I check my page but there's nothing from her, and the familiar hurt washes over me.

_Why couldn't she show a little fucking interest? Maybe then I wouldn't have reached out to a stranger on a train. Maybe then I wouldn't be facing imminent disaster._

But I know that's not right. I would have talked to Maggie even if everything with Vicky was perfect. I was drawn to her. I am drawn to her. I don't want to let her go.

I click on Vicky's timeline and scroll through the most recent posts. More drinking, more pictures of her and the girls. Her eyes get progressively wilder. Her clothes progressively skimpier. I click on the most recent picture, tagged "body shots", and my heart scrambles into my throat.

Vicky is splayed out on a lounge chair on the deck and some douchebag is licking salt from between her tits.

_What?_

What's even worse, I recognize that douchebag. The long blonde ponytail would give it away even if his favorite bowling shirt didn't.

_James._

_Fucking James is there._

_He's licking my girlfriend's cleavage, and I'm agonizing about some innocent snuggle. Fuck that._

Rage courses through me, and I toss the phone across the cabin. The sharp crack is muffled by the carpeted floor, and Maggie doesn't stir. I bet it's broken. I smile. _Good_.

_Fuck. It's probably broken._

I sigh.

I'm acting like a petulant child, and I still don't know what to do about Maggie. I wind my hand around her shoulder and pull gently, tipping to see her face. She's out cold. She's wearing a flickering smile—a secret smile. If I keep looking at that smile, I'm going to do more than press myself close to her body and admire her scent. I'm going to do something I'll regret. I'm going to fuck this up.

With a start, I finally get it. I'm not worried about fucking things up with Vicky. I'm actually kind of relieved she seems to have lost interest. But I'm absolutely terrified of fucking this up with Maggie. In less than a day, I feel closer to her than I've felt to anyone in years. I can't imagine going the next day or the next without seeing her face. Without hearing her twinkling laugh. I want to wake up to her like this everyday, only I want it to be okay. I want her to press into me and feel nothing but the simmering burn of expectation. I want her.

"Hey Maggie," I say, rocking her gently. "Wake up."

I'm not afraid anymore. Somehow I know she'll forgive me for keeping things from her. She probably already knew. She has a way of seeing right through me.

"Maggie."

She stirs and shifts, rolling onto her belly, then whipping her head around to me in alarm. When her eyes land on my face, her expression softens, and her mouth presses up in a shy smile.

"Hey. How'd we get here?"

"Stimulating conversation and too much beer." She snorts, and even that inelegant sound is cute coming from her. "We should probably talk."

"We've been talking all night," she teases.

"You know what I mean."

She's silent as she takes me in, examining my face until I feel hot under her gaze. She seems satisfied by what she sees.

"I do."

Outside, night is giving way to the first glimmer of dawn. Pale blue against the horizon pushes indigo higher and higher, extinguishing stars in its wake.

"Wanna get some breakfast?"

She sits up and ruffles her wild mane, then straightens her shirt.

"I'll buy the coffee. You spill the beans."

My laughter is hopeful and bright as it mixes with hers.

"Deal."

* * *

A/N: The "Bitch Brigade" is an homage to _The Tropic of Virgo_ by InABlueBathrobe (separate words with periods to look up author), the brilliant fic I'm in the process of re-reading.


	10. Assignment 9 Dialogue and 10 Orgasm

**Project Team Beta Smut University 2012**  
**Lesson: **Dialogue During Sex Scenes by kdc2239  
and  
Orgasm Me to Bits and then The End by Lulu_M5

**Assignment #9**: Take the lessons from above and write a scene between two people in an established relationship. The scene should be driven by the dialogue – make the dialogue believable and necessary. We should have an understanding of who your characters are through this scene.

**Assigment #10**: Write an orgasm scene, and if you'd like an extra challenge, do it in 500 words or less.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight

**A/N:** I'm doing something a little different this week, combining two assignments in one. You might recognize these two from my pre-assignment. With the title, it's 500 words even.

**Thank you** to **LuluM** for being a fabu SmutU dean, **Raindropsoup** for pimpin' hard, my fellow students for giving me gloriously dirty things to read each week, and to the girls of the **DTCPS** (**BelieveItOrNott**, **DragonFly336**, **DreamingInNorweigen**, **IReenH**, and **Thimbles**) for being my sisters and friends.

And thanks so much to all of you **readers** and **reviewers**! You guys have blown me away with your love for these silly little assignments.

I've loved this class, and can't wait to put all I've learned into future smutty endeavors!

* * *

**War**

"Ouch! Baby, no, to the right . . . the _other_ right!"

I don't know how we keep doing this. I'm not an exhibitionist. But Edward and I can't seem to keep it in our pants long enough to get to a . . . you know, _room_ . . . with a _door_. The screening room is dark and deserted, but anyone could walk in. Start a relationship by fucking a stranger in the library basement, and you're not setting the foundation for vanilla sex.

"Better?"

Edward scoots forward in the chair, and my knee no longer bangs into the armrest. I sigh my approval and fist his hair. My strokes are teasing and shallow as I rock on his lap. I don't have much leverage in this position, but even if I did, I'd keep things slow. I like the way he groans in frustration, a low rumble that vibrates through me. Antagonizing him is second nature, part of the aggressive tug-of-war that defines us. It's a thrill almost greater than the feel of his teeth on my breast, exquisite pain shooting like lightning between my legs.

"Don't fuck around, Bella."

He bites down cruelly on the other breast, and I scream in delight.

_Fuck, that's good!_

Edward tires of my control and grips my hips, lifting me up and slamming down. Up. _Down_. Up. _Down_.

"Oh, G-od."

My words are stuttered between punishing thrusts, and I feel him smile against my skin. His mouth is softer now, tongue working over the double-crescent bite marks like a salve, even as he maintains a hammering pace.

"See?" he grunts. His breath is hot on my chest, heavy and ragged. "Better."

My words match the rhythm of our bodies. "Fuck . . . you."

I don't know why, even now—as I feel that tightening in my abdomen, that tingle building between my legs—I can't give him an inch. I giggle, thinking about all the inches he's giving me. I realize my mistake—too late—as he pushes me off his lap and I feel the immediate, crushing loss of him.

"Fuck you? Fine."

Then I'm spinning and gripping the back of the seat in front of us, and Edward is sliding into me and propelling me up and up and up with a relentless pace.

_Ahhhh . . ._

My mind goes blank of everything but the feel of his hips against my ass, the glorious drive pushing me closer and closer to perfection.

"Yesss . . ." I hiss, yielding to him at last.

It's enough to push him over the edge, rhythm stuttering wildly as he cries out. He pumps hard and heavy as I grasp onto his final strokes and claw my way to release.

_Holy fuck!_

I am slain. Vanquished. Defeated. I'm empty of fight. Full of bliss. There is nothing—_nothing_—that compares to this glorious ruin.

Edward breathes hard against my shoulder as we come down, and I know he has been conquered as well.

"I love you, you infuriating girl."

"You too, stupid boy."

* * *

A/N: Just a few words about something important to me . . . (Thank you **dreaminginnorweigen** for being such a champion for this cause.)

Help us spread awareness of **Peace Day**, an annual day of global ceasefire and non-violence.

Recognizing that fanfiction readers and authors are a huge, connected community, we are encouraging you to use your collective power to make a difference in the world.

The non-profit organization Peace One Day led the process that resulted in the UN declaring September 21st as Peace Day. Every year, Peace One Day partners with a range of organizations from around the world to raise awareness of the day and to encourage Peace Day activities by all sectors of society, including life-saving activities in the name of peace — things like distribution of humanitarian aid, vaccinations, and trainings that help people improve their lives. Through efforts like this, in 2008, Peace Day marked a 70% reduction in violent incidents in Afghanistan. Ceasefire agreements by all parties to conflict in the country, including the Taliban, resulted in millions of children being vaccinated because health and aid workers were able to travel without fear for their lives.

This year, Peace One Day is working to see the largest global reduction of violence, and the largest gathering of individuals in the name of peace, on one day – Peace Day 2012. The Global Truce 2012 campaign will set an important marker for future Peace Days and reinforce the value of this unique annual day as a foundation for long-term sustainable peace.

**What can you do?**

Do you write? - Copy and paste the text above into your next Author's Note. Use your power within the fandom to spread the word:

Visit my profile and click on the links there to sign-up for the Global Truce campaign or watch a video about Peace One Day. Like Peace One Day on Facebook and spread the word on Twitter.

Tell your friends! Share this message with friends both in your fandom, in other fandoms, and in RL!


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